Šis ir citāts no Skid Row poetry gabala
Jul. 13th, 2007 | 02:00 am
From:: samarietis0x
Night’s Over, Now Deal with the Morning, Pal
The lump on my forehead
was the size of a golf ball and
had a small trickle of dried blood on it.
My room looked like a tornado
had ripped through it.
Everything was on the floor.
Paper, pens, glasses (drinking and seeing)
tables overturned, phone unplugged,
clock blinking 12:00.
None of this brought back any memories
of the previous night’s activities.
The last I could remember was hoping I had purchased
enough vodka.
I guess I had.
I was sweating even though it was cool.
The heat seemed to be coming from some
un-diagnosed ulcer in my belly.
The area on my chest near the heart was sore
from the murderous pace that the organ had undoubtedly
been pumping the night before.
It would fail one day.
I wouldn’t blame it.
Nothing else seemed to be able to live with me,
why would I expect it to?
The lump on my forehead
was the size of a golf ball and
had a small trickle of dried blood on it.
My room looked like a tornado
had ripped through it.
Everything was on the floor.
Paper, pens, glasses (drinking and seeing)
tables overturned, phone unplugged,
clock blinking 12:00.
None of this brought back any memories
of the previous night’s activities.
The last I could remember was hoping I had purchased
enough vodka.
I guess I had.
I was sweating even though it was cool.
The heat seemed to be coming from some
un-diagnosed ulcer in my belly.
The area on my chest near the heart was sore
from the murderous pace that the organ had undoubtedly
been pumping the night before.
It would fail one day.
I wouldn’t blame it.
Nothing else seemed to be able to live with me,
why would I expect it to?