they were all there and they were spitting out beauty into the chalice that is my soul lilting gruff voices filled the void of a thursday night the oldies, the goodies, the word junkies, the poetry groupies gathered in a melange of weed and cigarette smoke self absorbed self aware forming a collective of borderline narcissism the phrases are tumbling through the hushed voices the girls are given a chance and nail it amid the old school this boys’ club this ever dying art i’ve fucked enough to write about this i’m fucked up enough to try i’m creating my own legends becoming a satire of myself but the feeling i get when baring my soul baring my breasts in unknown territory this is the strength this is the push this is the life it’s not where you go but how you get there
