Flowed Down

There is no free flow of words
Coming from mouths, or from pens.
The fingers click triggers, keys,
And no one goes to sleep at night.
Matters of right, wrong, inconsequence;
Life on the ground is convergence.
Angles all getting the best angle around,
Obtuse or indigent…
But I’m from here says the man
With the abstruse mustache,
And that angle so inclined is that he must be mad;
Because angles so acute wouldnt wear faces on that one.
He’s got a clue in the kitchen;
A candlestick on my roll call;
Didn’t get the door open.
But I knew, I just knew.
Clues.
Blues.
Blew away that motherfucker away…
Sonny Boy Williamson too!
Cough…
TB is killing him,
But the band’s not the same without Sonny or Dylan
Like I’m not the same when completely sober.
I never am.
Corner store liquor or my inside connect with the Taliban.
Opium prices never felt so good
When I can’t feel my back;
But troy ounces sure as hell should.
It’s been over a month chasing Hector around cities
And my ankles been broken,
Really feeling shitty.
Just understand that I am not talking anymore
I’m walking, and as doing, I will do this no more,
Giving in to you;
Walk your own damn talk you damn words!

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