Another Meditation on Femininity and My Romance with the Late Mr. Thompson
Hunter S. Thompson makes faces at me
from across a bored mob. The expressions
I return are made of lovebug-eyes
and a mouth ready to eat itself
or anything.
Somewhere young men are stirring
silver powder into their beer--
I scraped it off the moon for them
and now they vomit from its potency.
Great. I've been to outer space and back
but still can't share this trip.
Their dreams are smashed, wasted, hammered.
I tried to sing again but choked.
Hunter pushed the breath back in
and said he'd walk me halfway home
"...woman!"
All these words are spray painted
on a train moving forward
faster than you know.
from across a bored mob. The expressions
I return are made of lovebug-eyes
and a mouth ready to eat itself
or anything.
Somewhere young men are stirring
silver powder into their beer--
I scraped it off the moon for them
and now they vomit from its potency.
Great. I've been to outer space and back
but still can't share this trip.
Their dreams are smashed, wasted, hammered.
I tried to sing again but choked.
Hunter pushed the breath back in
and said he'd walk me halfway home
"...woman!"
All these words are spray painted
on a train moving forward
faster than you know.