traffic blasts by with silent snowflakes
outside a coffee shop where the singer sucks

the joint is full
of young men and
old boys

there's poetry tomorrow
a day early
and always falling short

twanging guitar
croons through the night
Nirvana covers and Christmas punk
the best musicians are ugly

I wish I was high
as plaster paneled ceilings
I would float through the rooms
on the loneliness of the chords

speakers deliver to
so many empty couches
leather black or cream
like the died hair
on punk kids

their scuffed shoes drag
on cheap carpet

anything but another Kurt conformer
shut the hell up.
my frozen foot
your whiney ass.
wash your hair,
greaseball.

he cries on
and I think
if I were stoned I could love him.
and you.

fingers too cold
to hold a pen
I sip cappuccino like burnt wood

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