and the winter will find me.
Underneath trees
with a gun between my knees.
No longer do I care,
cigarettes and regrets,
let the cancer take my lungs
and my white horse.
I will crawl inside for warmth
wait it out like high rib,
snow in my beard,
poetry no one can hear.
the murder scene
is that of love left strewn
about benches and bitches
Manhattan and mistakes.
baby be right,
it is kill or be damp,
dead or be victor
for time is only not giving a shit.