Acid Tongues
It’s inevitable.
Dreamy eyes peel open,
Rose-colored REM cycles—fleeting.
All that’s heard is white noise
From a nearby television set,
Its short-lived limelight now faded to neglect.
Slatted daylight greets the stench
Of stale beer and cigarettes
That permeates the air. This air
Is the by-product
Of good times forgotten.
The corners of our dried lips are
Crusted with remorse, slobbering orifices
Addicted to sucking in this
Atmosphere mottled with teenage pollution.
We are surrounded by dirtied, crumpled
Clothing: Remnants of egos won and lost.
Our mouths taste of stomach acid,
Our skin reeks
Of stale beer and cigarettes.
Damp hardwood and damp spirits
Play souvenir to lost memories,
Each intoxicated account
Differing
In detail
And details.
It’s inevitable.
We realize that we act the victim,
Our past—the star—held hostage
By pleasures plagued with amnesia.
Our days are stale and fruitless,
Our nights
Recuperate us.
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