The Last Moon Poem

Tired, old moon,
you're sick
of the poetry.
You don't know
the words,
and you don't 
need them.

8-12-17

Walking to town, there were
cars on display. Walking
around, looking. Into a
coffee shop and taking a
piss. Going to home, deciding
on a beer. Checking the time.
15 minutes early. Sitting
on a bench, smoking. A
beautiful woman of dreams
walked by. In the bar,
the lady bartender, 
and a beer. She danced
around. Happily talking
about music. Sneaking
out for a cigarette.
Pain in the arm. Leaving
and walking home. Up and
down.

8-11-17

Three guys in black shirts
were sitting at the bar.
The bartender was a
pretty, young blond lady,
who also wore black.
A spark of love hit one
of the men from the 
pretty bartender. He
realized that she loved
him and so wanted sex
with him, but he loved
love, but didn't want sex.
Another of the men
started talking with
her, but didn't want love,
but wanted sex. She was
nice to him and maybe
wanted sex, but probably
not. The third man was
not too good looking, and
a little overweight, and
shy, and sad looking, and
he loved her so much
he couldn't stand it and
he desperately wanted sex
with her. He sat quietly,
looking at his device.
The man who loved love
left, and he was sad, but
he loved love and that was
enough.

Poedung

Tweet goes the bimby
in the sicky donk,
fooby to smit dug.
Why to spim boink.

Twimy in fooca
smucker for.

Untitled

Asking someone
if they want something
free,
while they are eating
soup,
can be dangerous.

Steps To Reclaim

Ideal seem look doesn't for
that. A, if nook off, in
nod A, and library seats,
or the book recline store,
car you a won't to be go.
The own only your one,
making with consider,
the available same readily
idea, isn't bring place.
Along time, eye sleepy,
masks a if if.

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