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Worn Out Pages Anew

Beer gardens on the Bowery
Quietus, ever vigilant on the skids.
The gutters are the wine cellars
into which all hope descends.
The ghost of Johnny Brooklyn
fallen footsteps in  the snow;
A hundred dreams are written;
Wordless thoughts in decay do grow
Into wilted roses and empty pockets too.
Drunken poets; with a day full of holes;
Laureates, writing holy words of wine,
Scribbled daily in worn out pages anew;
The ever decomposing petals of doom.
Shattered men in delirium
like bottles are broken and strewn.
Never a sober thought inopportune.
The death of  existence one shot at a time
Is another subterranean narrative
Of dipsomania in bloom.
- Poem by Jobe


The bar of soap ain't disappearing
And tomorrow is on the take.