| the_seeping_hours | ||
| Bukowski |
the seeping hours are born, when the ebb has fallen off of its stool and the flow has slowed to a drool and the smoke has long since ceased curling it's become just a stagnant haze of blue and the night's pace has drawn to a crawl, yet surpassed by a palpable stickiness and the conversations now are based upon earlier assumptions and previously drawn veins of conclusions and the whiskey no longer shivers any bite and the sex has been given or rejected or renewed under false pretenses of forgone innocent virtues and the sleepy need only rest now and the hours need not be called down for it is another early/late shade of a gass-lamp neon glow as the hotel's vacancy signs ignite their 'no' and the inner white lights finally surrender their thriving. it's this lack in time now to stumble on suckered under another shift of life gone down. |
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