Living Along Main St.

The tap dripped before I brushed, and I pissed into a porcelain cleaner than my record.

A night of jazz and hooch, rock and crocks, the wrong people called and no one got fucked. Some fucked up, but none fucked. I came home with expensive grease to a wall I was begrudgingly familiar with: illegal greens. And the thing is not the smoke itself, which I could avoid with a bandit bandana, but a lack of consideration for my well being in these few, small rooms (albeit from a passe posse that satisfy enough, but are not exuberant). I was in good company, but no one to make me cum, and no one I missed.

Almost asleep, I'm aware that I will be cleaning a mess I did not make tomorrow. Cans, glasses, packs and ashes, spills and vinyl--the room to entertain has served its purpose with no supervisor seeing to its cleanliness. Damn it.