Saturday, August 23, 2014

5825. MONKEYMASTER

MONKEYMASTER
I feel like a small time in Coney Island, or a
dumpy weekend in some Jersey Shore dive.
That same juke-box piddle playing; digital
soundstage and robotic people. Two girls,
swinging their gorgeous hips in time. A 
couple of greasy thugs, already halfway to 
drunk and stumbling around. The guy in 
the Buick, all bullshit and swagger, 
tries parking but gives it up.
-
I'm sitting here with a hole in my shoe and
another somewhere in my heart  -  withering
looks from the bar-keep, who seems somehow
too dismissive of a one-dollar tip for my taste.
Everything adds up; too bad it's to nothing.

No comments: