I’m Tired of Murder Mysteries

I’m Tired of Murder Mysteries

Weightlifting (off-my-back) magazines…

A little, itty-bitty, TV set…

Cigarettes, cigarettes, cigarettes,

rest quietly on the kitchen counter.

Regrets (no)?

…with time being just a phase;

and logic a form of rhythm,

Knowledge gets in constant conflict with Wisdom.


One shot of sad sunshine (going down!),

it hurts but I don’t mind.

-this is what lost ambition looks like-

The leaves they fall away from tress;

because, they’re tired and lazy;

-a hammock, a breeze, and a Long Island ice tea-

who can fight gravity?

It keeps me down; but, I just want to get fucked up.


Cut short like mom haircuts and cut-off jeans,

worn by those who in them shouldn’t be seen…

Your secrets’ safe(s) got broken,

opened, my eyes,

to pretty clean white lies.

Clean Coal®, Clean Coal®,

black, black,

Clean Coal®.

Online screens fight constantly with printed papers and magazines.


Please remove my sins,

like the tops of Appalachian Mountains.

I’m still trying to figure out how to exist,

within the context of this:

shit is fucked up and bullshit.

People are just watching each other,

kill each other.

I’m tired of murder mysteries.


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