There's Coffee in my Bourbon
Feedback please, positive or negative.
"
The goddamn sun beats the shit out of my fuckin' eyes like a sledgehammer. I don't have a 5' o clock shadow so much as 3 days worth of accumulated stubble. Somebody has the radio on and the sound of a banjo's sliding under my door as I push my body up. I woke up on the couch and I'm not quite sure how I got there, the smaller half of a whiskey and coke sitting on the table in front of me might serve as a clue. If I was a detective I would analyze the situation, but I'm not, and besides, who really gives a shit? I know I don't, I could really care less about how I got home, my thoughts and my hopes and my dreams are all on my salvation right now.
The holy grail is just around the corner, but it might as well be a fuckin' mile. Some chinaman once said that the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, one tiny little step. Sounds like some bullshit out of a fortune cookie or a cheesy card from a dime store, I know, but some of those bastards are actually pretty smart, so I think that whoever he was I'll give his logic an honest shot. First foot on the floor. Second foot on the floor. Stand up. Walk. Stumble. Cringe. Crawl. Die. Goddamn you, you fucking chinaman.
I can see it now, it looks like a fucking painting the way the sun is hitting it and bouncing right into my eyes. Tiny little daggers gouging my retinas. I don't care, I'm here, I've made it. Nothing should have the power to be so beautiful, but the cup which carries my redemption sits on the counter slighting the gods with it's glory. Picasso doesn't know beauty. Casanova doesn't know love. God doesn't know shit.
I'm afraid to touch it, like it's something from another world. It can't be real, it smells to good to be meant for a mortal soul like mine. But I can touch it, and I can smell it, and I can drinketh of the cup which carries my salvation. This is my church, this is my communion, this is my Sunday morning ritual cleansing me of the sins from an entire week. This is my coffee pot."
"
The goddamn sun beats the shit out of my fuckin' eyes like a sledgehammer. I don't have a 5' o clock shadow so much as 3 days worth of accumulated stubble. Somebody has the radio on and the sound of a banjo's sliding under my door as I push my body up. I woke up on the couch and I'm not quite sure how I got there, the smaller half of a whiskey and coke sitting on the table in front of me might serve as a clue. If I was a detective I would analyze the situation, but I'm not, and besides, who really gives a shit? I know I don't, I could really care less about how I got home, my thoughts and my hopes and my dreams are all on my salvation right now.
The holy grail is just around the corner, but it might as well be a fuckin' mile. Some chinaman once said that the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, one tiny little step. Sounds like some bullshit out of a fortune cookie or a cheesy card from a dime store, I know, but some of those bastards are actually pretty smart, so I think that whoever he was I'll give his logic an honest shot. First foot on the floor. Second foot on the floor. Stand up. Walk. Stumble. Cringe. Crawl. Die. Goddamn you, you fucking chinaman.
I can see it now, it looks like a fucking painting the way the sun is hitting it and bouncing right into my eyes. Tiny little daggers gouging my retinas. I don't care, I'm here, I've made it. Nothing should have the power to be so beautiful, but the cup which carries my redemption sits on the counter slighting the gods with it's glory. Picasso doesn't know beauty. Casanova doesn't know love. God doesn't know shit.
I'm afraid to touch it, like it's something from another world. It can't be real, it smells to good to be meant for a mortal soul like mine. But I can touch it, and I can smell it, and I can drinketh of the cup which carries my salvation. This is my church, this is my communion, this is my Sunday morning ritual cleansing me of the sins from an entire week. This is my coffee pot."