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May 20, 2013


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.
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.


From → Poetry

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