The skin is taught across the youthful face
Of the unwaveringly present tense,
The nightly pack-a-day unfiltered race
Toward lives led underneath the white-smoke fence
Between mistranslating the predicate,
And conjugating love with two more beers.
The fence top climbs into a figure eight,
That lasts as long as over-crowded cheers
For city-paid magicians stopping time
And care, with purples, reds, and burgundies,
And yellowed herringbone in soothing strokes
That cross a healthy Rubicon and mime,
"Now, now! Here you see the linden trees.
Forget the falling kiss of homeward oaks."
Way to Break My Balls, David Foster Wallace
3 years ago