Pub Crawler

cad’s neon tides crash
the city streets all
bloody night,

track his florescent prints behind
the shed of mind’s dirty little
secret curtain life

horn solos cut through the sweaty
strobe night patterns like a
hot sword might through
butter knife,

c’mere boo and catch a whiff
of this Prada cologne

and all the soft lawn lantern tones
lightin’ up the dirt roads he
back-crawls home.



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