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A Poem For Peons (Lost Ticket)

February 22, 2014

onehundredandtwenty

And you cried.
Those blue eyes.
Sparkling.
In the scummy.
Second hand.
Orange sodium light.
Of the canal.
Sniffling.
Cute and so pathetic.
As we walked back to the hotel.
And you only stopped.
As I trimmed the fat.
Of that.
Which had been thrown in.
And then risen to the top.
It sunk and spread.
Like a rash.
Across.
Every place I’d touched you.
Said something.
I didn’t mean.
And then something.
I meant too much.
You said.
I should have kept it to myself.
Well.
They look better.
Viewed through fingers.
In the morning sun.
These things.
It’s said.
A bell you can’t un-ring.
And I can cry.
No ocean.
From my insides.
From my gut.
No motion.
Moves me forward.
You’re an angel.
You’re a slut.
Forever round.
And over.
A glut.
A sick emulsion.
Of her.
And you.
And I.

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From → Poetry

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