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Spring In Newport

Sitting, writing in my buddy’s bar
Drinking Sam Summer on tap
Thinking about the very
and desolate place I have to go
The hot bartender, well, not so hot now
Lord, the amount of drugs and alcohol
I need to get back there
Thing is, my body can’t take it anymore
My purest form of artistry has become
a forced game of Russian roulette
But the funny thing is
I’m still isolated
There’s no place for me in their
fucking world either
Still my mind cries
for the warm embrace
of a slow death
And I can’t believe that I
actually thought for a second
about taking a quarter from
the leukemia board
to put in the
prevent missing children box
for a chocolate
The summer douche bags are here
God I miss cocaine sometimes

7 Jul 17

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a good verbal model of the structure of the floating world. sort of gently rocking too and fro. humm.... dorothy parker wrote that reading winnie the poo made her want to 'fro up'.
 — cadmium

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