we waffle and wait and time bides us
drinking our fill from the waters of slaughter
reading our regrets too deep for our hip waders
the follies of fashion haunt these specters upon which we hit
damning us to an interminable inimitable hell below our own ethics
but we have Tom and maker's mark to wail our sorrows out upon
a stage of our own making, a page we both have taken
ripped out, collated, shredded and forgotten
like last night's phone number ridden beer coaster
like tomorrow's dream, spent and not invested,
deferred yet not despairing
my main manic man struts pride down the sidewalk smoking forevers beneath his lapel
I talk tales tall and pretend towards humility while pocketing my daydreams
unbeknowst to fate and her terrible tunics
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This annoying little man was talking to us, or was that we? We tried to forget the art of listening and instead forgot what we were saying. And so we repeated ourselves into an alcoholic oblivion approximated by our hollow hungry words back and forth and forth again, like a thirsty river longing for the desert.
This annoying little man was talking to us, or was that we? We tried to forget the art of listening and instead forgot what we were saying. And so we repeated ourselves into an alcoholic oblivion approximated by our hollow hungry words back and forth and forth again, like a thirsty river longing for the desert.
