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If Hemingway
was here today
would he Instagram
his catch?
And dare you say
that Hemingway
was rotgut—
his defense?
Out on the bay
he’d fish and say
what pleasures
have a man?
His slow decay
here but a day
come then let’s see your stance!
Put up your dukes
and lace your boots,
a fight? No sir
let’s dance!
It’s
a
fine art,
the
art
of following.
Choosing
that
precise moment
to
stop
is too, a work of art.
Like
a
thief in the night.
It
is
frankly, what separates
the
Doomed
from the Damned.
Like
a
self-congratulatory hand-job.
Sad
in
a way,
contagious
in
another.
An eye
for
an eye
with
no discernible
end.
Words Of An Average White Male 