he (angry hipster in recovery)

he
strikes out hard
and phonetic
at the listener
like a coiled cobra
finger snaps preferred?
playing the 'new stuff'
sounds just like the old stuff
but not as fresh and cool
sound of syllables
non-sense with 'meaning'
kept saying
how much he hates
the stuff
wont ever sing em again
a spirit regurgitating
the same old thing
'i hated those days'
there is nothing left
back there
sad to see a man
so at war
with some of his best
creations
but even frankenstein
the genius who made
life artificial real
got his demon
face to face
and fucked
him
up
gnite
m
sorry

inspiration

this sandy desert
a treasure
or an endless wasteland
i return to the well
find nothing
and such a long trip
for the little looksy
and staring back
nothing but sandstorms
and chapped lips
burning eyes
for something
wet and pretty
my body won't move
but standing steadfast
against the sun
all is quiet but the
single vulture
and the one nearby
wrinkled tree stem
long since succumbed to
this dryness
i am standing now unarmed
as i know i've come too far
i will not survive the return
with no water
one-way ticket
this time
a cooler breeze
alights on my face
like an angelic butterfly
all hope lost?
perhaps...
so far from my being
so far from my time
and lost to my mind
a swirly sandstorm
that once had the wet
relevance
of a thundershower
a nourishing danger
now just dry deathly
i scan the horizon
silence
fuck
nothing
but silence
and the vulture
my little friend
all hope lost
so maybe one last looksy
down the well
and what is that?
down in the darkest shadows
against the rock
what could that be
that i see
reproducing?
like a vulgar display
it is,
yes,
hope springs
a couple
tiny
drops...