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December 24, 2016


If you called tonight.
Where would I put my tongue?
Though this was never a problem.
Coming through the rye.
Right where it belongs.
But now.
If you called tonight.
What then?
I’ve no more appetite
No longer.
It’s skin on bone.
Whilst everything else grows stronger.
My rage.
My resignation.
My venerated decay.

But I’m okay.
I’m dying
And that’s fine.
Stay in the house.
Stay out of trouble.
Stay on the narrow.
Stay in the lines.
What’s yours is theirs.
But what’s mine is mine.
They write this in the contract.
But the print is fucking fine.

Leeches for gauze.
Bleach as soap.
The audacity of realism.
The nihilism of hope.
You laid down your guns.
And left it to luck.
But the Facists are here.
And now you’re fucked.
Of course, so am I.
But when they turn on the gas.
It’s you who will choke.
Whilst I lay back and laugh.


From → Poetry

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