|
{indefinitely} dane cobain This is a real bad city full of crazies and between the drugs and the booze and the sex there’s nothing to e-mail home about. Mother turned 49 this year and I’m living away from home with a real job, this time. And there’s a real bad place in this city that I haven’t managed to find; it’ll be out there somewhere, like we all are. I cut my hair short for the summer, looked presentable at weddings, prepared for a first and perfect pitch. I sang songs along the motorway. But it’s a real bad city for my real bad posture, slouching in the sunshine smoking cigarettes ‘til someone send me home. I read the one true poet and make a start on the Stella. |
