The other us

 
Drunk.
Stupid ill-conceived and mistaken.
All at once brilliant
And completely fucked in the head.
Minds are a distant maelstrom
Of colors and things that don't make sense
And are most likely mispelled,
Knowing our tendencies.

We are indeed broken, but we feel
So together so locked-in so perfect,
Oblivious to nature
Ripping our seams outwards
And pouring in gobs
Of discombobulation, still chilled,
Extracting half-aware moans
Of cloudy discontent.

Asleep.
Dead to the world and unsure
Of our desire to be alive again,
What with all the bloody temptations we find
Deep inside a whiskey dream world
Where we see all the good things
That have so deeply convinced us:
We are so much more fun stoned.
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Quick Links! The "Thank Goodness the Weekend Is Here" edition:

Anthony Kirchner's The Rent Is High But At Least the Taps Are Out is a great little story.

A new poem is up on Peter Richter's Fictionaut - a nice piece chock full of great images.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Gold Lion