Frank Black

A re-usable spray can holding my liquid gold of blackness,
I remember us walking through the dirty graffitied laneways of Brunswick admiring the amazing street art...well except for the occasional uninspired tag marked by some hand lacking any gross motor skills that were lost or not acquired as a child,
Yet I still awake with the usual zombie groan that others call Monday,
This isn't no "Thriller" from "MJ",

Unscrewed opening,
You call me a single origin wannabe activist with its Melbourne Made Fair Trade quality...you still do,
The water steams and flows mixing in with darkness,
The battle between the two begins and ends like a dream that ends abruptly just as the best part begins,
For a split second I'm living my dream,
A hipster barista with the exact right length beard walking into the woods filling the void of never quite fitting in,
The taste of Kenya hits my senses and my dirty unshaven surface area,
You still complain that you smell Kenya lingering on my breath,
But how you loved the fact that I'd power up with each sip and reboot my system yappering on like the next podcast edition of "Now Hear This",

I know this day is about to begin,
Bitter taste lips calm my inner lacklustre,
I've already dropped you several times but chill...no spill,

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