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I Hate Nevada.

Sometimes the wind blows,
And the city is a cooler place.
Sometimes your smoke blows
Right onto my face.
And my lungs breakdown,
And my eyes, they drown
In blood sweat and tears
That I've dedicated to you
And me, and we, and us, and
This town, this city, this hell hole.
The seventh circle we call home.
The seven oh two we call home,
On our cellular telephones.
That area code we call home,
That zip code we call home.
That sunshine and desert dryness,
And that cacti we call home.
With coyotes and scorpians and things unseen.
And prostitutes, and Elvis, and plans unschemed,
And broken dreams,
And slot machines.
And casinos and cars on every corner.
Weed and E in the hands of a mourner,
And in the hands of the kids,
And in the mouths of adults,
And among the adolescent.
Everything in hotel rooms,
Never see daylight, we rise with the moon.
In this great place we call home,
In this great state we call home,
In this great state of mind from home,
In this piece of hell called home.
Welcome to Las Vegas.





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CallMePepper said...
Oct. 25, 2010 at 11:42 pm
Very well written . . . I really enjoyed reading this poem.  You managed to put a lot of detailed images in it without making it seem too detailed. 
 
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