Back to black coffee.
My cream days are over,
the rough sugar tarting up my mouth,
the cream a pleasure slick
on my tongue.
No more filled out angles.
No more belly full slumber
but a groaning, gnawing
that asks at least for water,
or a lump of fiber,
a natural drop of juice,
a breath of fresh air.
Aristotle could stand on his feet
with a thought, one thought or a chain,
until sunrise,
only standing, and thinking,
but today he would be under
a numbed drug haze, in a lazy boy,
empty beer cans clinking softly
next to him.
Who doesn't want an ethereal mind
and a hunger that can evanesce?
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