by R.S. Cooper
An extremely short and somewhat dreary poem.
|Used to pour whiskey in my coffee,|
now it's steamed milk in Earl Grey.
Still have these tattered old Doc Martens,
and a patched up denim vest,
trapped in a latent melancholic punk phase.
I read a few Nabokov novels,
now I feel like throwing up,
because buried somewhere in that shit
is what we call the human soul;
God please have mercy if you ever show up.