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EXit if you hate it.
Dylan Thomas
...written on 2008-03-06, @ 11:47 p.m.
You're hunchbacked on decrepit benches. Paints peeling on your pale trenchcoat and the smoke from your smoldering cigarette has nowhere to float but up. Grey tendrils grip the sickly slant of trees and slide sinuously slowly along their length-the pathetic fallacy of a previous gratification. You show no signs of moving. Settled, like a beatnik poet, with no place to go. So you smoke, waiting for inspiration or winter like all great poets do.