Back in twenty

Anguish is something that washes over your face
as pale blue watercolor
from a loaded brush.

You gaze dully out from behind
the watery film
just the same as ever.
But now you feel tired
and let your mouth hang open
and allow the willing fly to buzz on in
and you try your damndest
to decide
whether it's better to drown yourself in cheap whiskey
or just pass the fuck out.

That last cigarette wasn't even that good.
Too damp from clammy hands and lips
but it was better than trying to find something to eat in this dump.
You hope it will eventually out itself
watching the last bits of paper burn into a ribbon of blue
up to the ceiling.

This damn place would make itself dirty
even if I didn't.
Thoughts are muttering about in your head like
old friends playing craps up on the second floor
of a dusty saloon
The lines of physical realization
blur out of importance.
You fall slowly into the sweet black arms of 
nothingness.