domestic terrorism
and the weather
piss poor days and hangover mornings
only a spit of scotch left in the bottle
trying to piece together the remnants of the night
between domestic terrorism and the weather
the lies and promises of youth too far in the distance
a face in the mirror unrecognizable through all the carnage
but oh these piss poor days and hangover mornings
even the tranny on the corner of 4th avenue
dangling her cigarette out of her mouth like a pipe dream
looks angry, hungry for something better than this.
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