Bob Dylan in a crowded subway somewhere underneath MacDougal Street—near 3rd avenue;
Someone’s gotta feed the culture and the masses their daily bread and butter.
Dirty socks with the grey jean jacket, walking down the dark Belltown streets which were earlier full of fat tourists and skinny baristas.
White skin, black skirt puking on the sidewalk south of Market—the fast lane caught up quickly, her trust fund will pay the price for her.
Skinned knees and daisy braids, running towards the world with a quarter and a grin.
Innocence and brightness wrapped up in a package so sweet, you can’t help but take it.
Red scars and faded eyes—running from the world with a neat two-hundred.
Innocence and brightness that was wrapped up in a package so sweet, you couldn’t help but take it.
Champagne and limousines; that beautiful plastic world.
But plastic is cheap, and replaceable—it won’t last the mile.
Grey irises and nicotine stained hands, hands that lead—then drop.
All that smoking will catch up, they’ll drop like a fly themselves and you’ll wonder why it didn’t happen sooner.
Stuttered speech and hair that hides; she’ll figure out she’s beautiful…one day.
But trains are fast, and learned. Give them too much fuel and you’ll never catch up.
Broken heart and a tired smile—lust replaces love on a daily basis; easier to find and harder to let go.
He’ll never fall so fast again, as long as he keeps his dick in his pants.
Striped cardigan and broken oxfords—hey man, you’ve got a line of cocaine seeping out your nose, better hide that shit okay?
Shiny rings wear out, just a new cultures and ideals are forgotten.
Charles Bukowski drinks a Boilermaker and scratches out his life; setting it in stone, or at least paper.
Who better to make us all take a second look at that mirror in the morning than the man himself?
Or rather, who better to make us all take a second look at that mirror in the morning than a man who should have never wanted to look at it himself?