Untitled No. 18

this ain’t no contract for all the autodidacts

this ain’t no country club

it’s the last dance

only chance to make time

fade the fuck away

into the ashtrays,

buy a coke, a six-pack and nicotine of some kind,

and wash yourself knowing

just as you pay

it’s just a liars last dream with truth in mind

holding ice in my hand

waiting for the whiskey,


hand me my medicines, man.

I can’t stay waiting for the policeman,

all the things that he can


and stay true

to his badge,

and his zoo.


so they say my breath smells like whiskey

but my breath doesn’t drink, I do.

I’m just rhyming consistently,

doesn’t mean anything

alright, maybe it does occasionally.