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Sleet

February 17, 2018

onehundredandseventysix

The ghost of a flea.
In a black dog’s ear.
Why don’t you?
Why did you?
No pain.
No tears.
Just a stirring in the stomach.
A little yearning in the vein.
Thirteen slips of the best part.
Those that are left.
Must learn the art.
Of rebuilding the remains.

If there was ever an augury.
It was ever an act.
An apple to keep the doctor away.
An Abel to hold the wolves at bay.

Propriety denies us.
The control of death.
The satiety of choosing.
A releasing breath.
Well.
Fuck you.
Your horse.
And all of your hope.
Fuck.
Most of all.
The Gods that you back.
The things that they promise.
Are the things that I lack.
But I’m OK.
There are teeth enough in my head.
To grind in my sleep.
Give unto me bread.
And if I’m still laughing.
It’s my cross and my curse.
It only starts being funny.
When someone gets hurt.

 

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