once upon a time
in a land not so far away
a man sat alone in the dark cool of his room
world outside buzzing
cars and voices and sirens and screams all a hot mess
he was glad to be alone
his mind raced back and forth
the subtle distinction between dreams and memories had left him long ago
he had fought great battles and died hundred's of deaths in the arms of his lovers
he was king once, once a court jester if memory served right
he had shot John F. Kennedy
still nobility escaped him
he was alone
substance eluded him
his fingers couldn't hold real matter
the bottle , the glass, ice, slips from his fingers, numb, why numb?
hes too drunk to care
his forty five record plays calmly
well im wasted and iii cant find my way hooome
it hits on bumps and dust, scratches morphing into perfection
records are a thing of the past
your a thing of the past
he knows it
maby its some kind of awful last salute to the American dream he's trying to pull
who does he think he is? Hunter S. Thompson?
the metals cool to the touch, surprisingly cool
he always loved cherry wood, smooth in his palm
it feels icy against the beads of sweat clinging to his forehead
what forehead?
maby its under the coffee table
maby it blew away like dust
nothing of value there to begin with
the record cant scratch out history like he could