An upper class neighborhood.
hanging plants and porcelain tile
soft music wafting across purified air
not one cigarette or card game
no money on the pool table
light chatter drifts towards my ear
of corperate takeovers...
of sons playing for notre dame.
you should see him wing that pigskin!
last sunday I shot a sixtyeight.
who knew that strippers were a travel expense
or trophy wives or eightballs or vintage wine
on the other hand.........
smokey room filled with throbbing beats of sexually charged muzak
Billy got thrown out for trying to pay off a bet with his fists... and a wicked looking hunting knife.
maggie's in the corner bawlin', her son is in for a nickle
don's paying alimony 'cause of a sixteen year old cutie who (used to) babysit his kids.
these are my people we're losers, we're fucked
yet bukowski was right the "losers" of the world are more real.
I know when I'm full of shit!