Wednesday, August 27, 2014


swallowing gnats with bile rising
a tomb of sleep
I hear the day
I fear its heat
and swing away

humming gnats o things of beauty
a tomb of life
I know the smell
I love the night
and blissful hell

rhythm rhythm count on fingers
clever here now
stupid there
they ask me how
I could not care

fingers blunted vodka singing
a week of me
of me and I
I hope this week
is not to die

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