Afternoon

they bang together like blues, the black-rimmed glasses they brought back from the 50s, the way they sit red and gray when it was just black and white, leave it to beaver white families stuck in perfection while the world around them went to hell and good boys and girls died in color, it was color that was red and gray, not much different from these blues bangers, hipsters with their cigarettes hanging off their lips like Godard's ghost, lisping away from every puff they waste, the smoke calling all the addicts in the city, their lungs rasping across graffiti-streaked walls, walls of poverty, and you just want to throw the fucking coffee pot against in slow-motion, because you run in circles every day, oh they told you you could be something great, but somewhere between your last button on the red and gray button-up and the fitting of black-rimmed glasses in a color world from the 60s, you realize that you're stuck in the gap of two generations, maybe even three, climbing back up on mid-week alcohol binges and amphetamine uses, but no you're no Kerouac, because your life is dull dull dull, brought from the suburbs and its all the same old story, just a satellite image, maybe they drop they bomb maybe they don't, but if they do you'd better hide under a desk like good little schoolchildren.  And the bomb will destroy every black-and-white but actually white family with the pearl necklaces and state of the art vacuum cleaners and cats that rip the perfect white carpets with the furor of their tiger brethren, and the world will be left in a globe of smoke, just smoke that chokes your vision like it does your lungs, and then they take that suck in, forget to inhale, and toss the damn thing on the streets of New York.

Fuckin' waste of a cigarette if you ask me.