DEADBRAH the PANCAKEMAN - Have Another Drink.

[dead man]

fuck



cold blankets. i've been waking up at 2:55
air conditioner wheezing. TV's illuminant lies
flicker like lantern lights.
spaghetti westerns, noodles aside
dying to convince myself there's beauty in rhyme.
we've resigned -
no, retired .. to our cubical lives
sacrificing toes in hopes the Dude will abide
it's an unusual ride. take a second to see
electromagnet mechanisms measuring dreams
metronome precise like water pressured to steam
rainforest scavenger. hammock ropes, deciduous trees
half-intellectual scenester, full-on mecha machine
asleep in the armory like autistic marines
humankind is perfect. it's impeccable being
as is all.
life is simple. take your lemon & squeeze
it takes a while for expression and potential to meet
wait for obstacles to pop. be successful. repeat.
yeah right, Let it be. let it settle, decease
guitar rifts to the rhythm, Vladimir Lennonist speech
i knew reality was destined to crease
when acceptance switched places with sense of belief
liberate through literary sketches in sheets
as charcoal pencil shavings ventilate a pensive retreat
thrown away possessions that were better to keep
trust me,
learning is an option. but it's better to teach.
air conditioner wheezing. TV's wretched deceit
cold blankets send a shiver
ice cream, sensitive teeth.
insomnia presents itself as conscious release
but boils down to another pathological leash
i've been waking up to plot a release
from punctuality. clockwork gospel,
God doesn't preach.

Have another drink. Ok. Have another drink.
And then one more. And then after that, have another drink.
Grab it from the sink, lose it in your lap when you sleep.
Ok. It's only because you can't sleep, the alcohol enchants and disarms,
and promises a deeper sleep, no more phantom alarms,
no more two thirty's. No more sluggish eyes, dancing with charms.
No more closing your eyes and envisioning breaking his arms,
no more vengeance. Or harm. Just the float that you feel.
All your sentences gone, thoughts and emotions repealed,
what was once tentative's strong, felled to black and soaking in real.
Yes, most people will yield to a night of dreams, sober.
But you're so special. So drink, and be alone until you feel older.
Eventually these endless night owl days will add,
and your overt nostalgia will make your coworkers say your sad,
but they can't know the depth. The walk of the slow of step and cautious,
the secret drunk with a mission to drown out his recesses nauseous,
who only wakes solid after he's slept unconscious,
after visions of her, curves lapped in lace,
that you can only access when you're out cold from jack that's straight,
reminiscing on the last moment you could salivate.
So you've got your ticket. A double shot glass and a bottle to empty,
and a lost future so awkward of entry.
And the morning can only wait, relentlessly holding weight,
because Folgers and an office implores.
The one thing you own is eight hours, drunk, soggy and sore.
And wondering what the fuck your nostalgia is for.



you