Alright then. Here’s another one for all of you miserable sods who content yourself with the idea that reading poetry to yourself aloud, within the confines of your own room after a few swigs of white wine straight from the bottle is slightly better than, say, spending the entirety of a night on the town in the back of some random nightclub and drowning your vodka in a pool of your own sorrows and smudging your tears with the soulless substance that was your mascara.
Yes, this is one for all of you would-be poets out there, who would definitely… probably… could be poets if you weren’t too busy running around in circles and shouting about this and that and the end of the universe as we know it. This goes out to all of you who tried to write poetry one night, but discovered that you got laced with a super-high dose of adderol and proceeded to spend the next sixteen hours contemplating the fabric of the universe itself contained within that one dirty sock that always manages to find itself in the corner of your room.
Enjoy it you miserable gits:
MY RIFLE AND MY TRUMPET
My trumpet howls in pain
To the desolate moon
My rifle sings to the sheet music of three
Yet constantly contradictory.