brytyjska poezyja miseczki B75.

The Travel

He sat.
Asked if I'm not bored living in a cathouse
He made me sick and bored.

Three thousand liters of alcohol ago,
We talked about the poor guys
who ended up on Old Sparky
and those rich sons of a bitch, who avoided it.

Everything seems to be so far.
I remember the scorching August,
almost three hours
of talking about West End
puny elm wood, vertical sun and the lake of your anxious skin.

We part so long and without sense.

Midnight
Someone closes the door, someone falls asleep.