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Caliban

May 20, 2013

sixtytwo

So, I’m coked up like a bitch.
My tongue’s fucking itching.
To tell you I love you.
And swim up your thigh.
I’m talking shit.
Everyone’s listening.
I’m dressed to the nines.
You’re laughing and smoking my cigarettes.
Whilst I count out the lines I have left.
All smokers secretly wish for death.
These things that kill us remind us we’re alive.
Barely.
Time and tide wait for no man.
Best work on your plan.
Cause I got mine.
Carve my name in a book.
Carve my name into time.
Pills, lullabies and wine.
Grit your teeth.
Hold your tears.
I’ve been dead fifteen years.
Keep your adagio and your weeping.
A decade of toothache and five more of plague.
It feels good to be finally sleeping.

I cried as I read.
Kafka, in bed.
Because I recognized myself as the ‘roach.
And I smiled as I felt.
Each blow Bukowski dealt.
Because I recognized the hand at his throat.

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From → Poetry

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