Wonder.Years.BUMP-s(p)ot
by Sam HaiNe

Your body craves it.
Needs it.
Maybe depends on it.

It’s the one thing that lasts a lifetime but no one ever has enough of.
It's worth more than money (Time).
You want it?
Need it?
Crave it?
Can never find anything to do with it.
Waste it.
Flaunt it.
Run it right into the ground.
Put a value on it and give it away for nothing.
You wanna take it for granted yet want something for it.
Sometimes is never and always is a broken promise.

Still need it?
Crave it?
Want it?

That fidgety craving for substance and being satiated.
Oh you’ll happen upon it and say it's in the bag.
Only thing inside, thou, is sinking to the bottom of a fifth.
Eight fingers deep.
Perched on a barstool, looking for converts.
More time.
More time and more excuses to kick sand.
Bluer than urinal water.

Need it.
Crave it.
Want it.

You seek it in the needle, between their legs, in every second glance.
You look for it in politeness, compromise, social media, misdirection.
The soundtrack of your life is a warped record repeating the same beats.
Insecurity subverted and under makeup – but for how long?
‘Payaso’; a clown-faced-minstrel, playing his cigarette like Chet Baker - solo.

Killing the excess with single malt; fucking.
Here and there in between the lines.
Somewhere in-between bedlam and tranquilized -
behind the hourglass tavern is a son of a bitch pitching teabags -
(of the past), with enough sweetener.
Get your fix in.
Nostalgic junkies addicted to the warm fuzz of their youth.
Couch surfing through a remote control drip.
Jerking the rewind button like a slot machine in a glory hole.
Never as good as the first time.

Bittersweet.
The past playing like a mixtape.
Disjointed.
Poetic.
Disillusioned.
Time.
Fading.
Haunting.
Echoes.