My friends are misfits.
My life is one long waiting room of suffering,
Poised for transcendence.
I want to live in rose-perfumed rooms
Where people chat narcotically over acoustic guitars.
We’re outcasts, broken toys,
Seers, peace-time warriors, troubadours made shy
By digital irony. This cannot be our destiny!
My muse’s soul is like an opalescent paving stone,
Trod hurriedly over by hobnailed boots –
Do they still make those?