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Karma

June 3, 2013

seventyone

I can’t bleed when I need it.
I’ve got a bad feeling.
That this will always, ever, be.
Don’t lay your hands on me.
Push your fingers through the bars.
If you can’t stand to love me.
If you love someone, set them free.
The testimony of the witless, airy generation.
Who never lost the shirt from off their back.
Witness.
If you love someone.
Bury them and pack the dirt.
They say it only gets better in time.
Let them carve it on their tongues if they believe it.
I’m too tired to lie.
It can get get so much fucking worse.

I’ve got my eye on you.
Laughing too loud and pitching my jaw.
And the Codeine is slinking away with its head to the floor.
Creeping back to your bed.
I’m stinking of aftershave.
The one that reeks of cheap coke and the smell of your sweat.
I’ve got my eye on your socket.
Another terrible, medically perfect part of you.
I crushed it with the back of my hand.
With the weight of my love.
And now it’s grown back.
Intact.
Scalpel-cut sculpture, carved from black marble.
You’re just a part of my grisly sonata.
De profundis little ditty, partly written in your ink.
Dies irae, little chicken, come to roost in soiled sheets.
Spoiled little child who never pays for her drinks.
On one half of my face, there’s a smile.
One half of my smile, a sneer.
Each notch in your spine.
Another peak in Dog’s holy mountain range.
And I rode it to its nadir.

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From → Poetry

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