fake keurouac

he had shit brown eyes and dishwater hair
an eighteen year old fair skinned kerouac
on the road to somewhere in colorado
dressed liked a beatnik, a modern beatnik
while his long hair hippie friend
slept the whole ride there
i don’t remember their names
sugar on the tip of my tongue
i had barely tasted the sweetness
we pulled to a stop and they strolled off
to ski or find their souls somewhere
while i was stuck with ten more hours
and sick, sweet fanatasies
of the private car
we got high in

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