This Place (from "A Slip Of The Tongue")

this place
it never changes.
the spiders still hang from the corners of the walls.
the lamp shades still sit covered with dust.
the carpet is stained and filthy.
not much happens here
but my life
and the keys of this
typewriter.

to write is to die in a dark room
under the light of a 60 watt light bulb
as the moths collect against the window
and I watch the flying circle of insects
against the
light and the
night.

maybe they will discover me here someday soon
buried in papers and words
dead from
alcohol or something
worse.

all I can do is
hit these keys
and masturbate between the
moments as I am waiting for some sort of divine
inspiration.

was this what
you expected when
you began reading this
poem?
God and
myself will laugh off this poor moment
at the onset of eternity.
nothing left to do here
but sit and laugh
at how dark this night can really be
when the lights are out
and the words run dry.

yes, there is a sort of warmth in knowing
that you have hit the bottom
and there is no where else to go now
but to your
self-deluded
top.
this place.
this place.
I take another drink
and hit these keys
again.

View Poem (posted 5:09 AM) 

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