Quote:
Originally Posted by Vulgar
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rich in sound. the tavern sensed
the cold burn at the nighttime's open maw
where the patio breathed smoke, and gradual rings
wrote words for the song
from notes that were gathered
on napkins and coasters,
the closest listener couldn't
untangle the pianist from keys
or disengage the eroding of rock into
an old drinker's cough. lowering talks
& i wish there were more words for the world to give
when there's a thousand worlds inflected in the
words you skip. ink to blowout
or wellsprings capped, untwist that aroma
tethered to your tongue as the Shiraz-leaked mirage
burns at the tip,
I can bite or I can howl-
the blues, you never sing