i ain’t got no typewriter
i got a demon in a box
that doesn’t like to be disturbed
at this lonely hour
and all i hear
is the sound of tired fans
pushing tired air
through a tired home
filled with tired bones

i’m on my fourth or fifth beer
and i’m remembering
memories that seek to kill me slowly
we aren’t waiting for death
we’re
waiting for life
with tall smokes
on a short fuse
and the next payday is
just a mile away

this motor-head
loves to run on fumes
and distant sonic booms
but my bullshit rises
to meet the tides
as heroes disappear
in a classical collage
of calculated conflict

how do we spend
these in between moments?
i think we use vulgar currencies
with no expectations for tomorrow
notes, links, and memes
what do they mean?
i’m trapped in these solid dreams
of mechanical ecstasy

i favor destruction to an edited version of the truth

sex would be preferable
to these
unrepentant and
brief periods of
intoxicated time
but alas
i have no more gifts to give
and all i can do
is tap that one last
long ash
from my failed cigarette
and hope that this
miscarriage of a poem
will find a seat at the table of immortality