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two little words that mean so much to me

even this morning

staring at illusions on the beach

rocks sinking into mirrors

sinking down down into that

ice cold abyss that surely

awaits our tepid blood and

unreliable bodies

we don’t

we don’t believe your supposed


we don’t believe your self

inflicted detachment

we dont

we don’t believe that you will never write a good line again

but that was before the 10111 call

there’s this girl turning blue on our balcony

they apparently said

flashing lights

naloxone then red

all my heroes are changing clothes

who they are now

none of us knows

they’re taking photos of me

they’re taking photos of you

whatever -we write

no matter

we do

its strange that all i will leave behind

is these words

funny little words

funny little squiggles on a page

no house, no kids, no legacy, no business, no car, no riches, no regrets

just these funny little words

will be left

standing on the balcony last night

i let that warm sane narcissism wash over me

surrendered to its charms

if change is better than a holiday

then proverbs are better than psalms

the grass the sand this bed is cold

just like my skin

though all four have small beads of perspiration to remind what

warmth will feel like again

pretend for as long as it takes

thats what i tell myself this morning

after a good five hours of knocked out sleep

nay i am deluded

i can pretend as much as i can abstain

my drinking is way  off the charts

i’m embarrassed to tell the nurse

half a bottle of brandy, a bottle of vodca

a Spier savignon blanc, jagermeister shots and two spins

a few hits of the pipe, two shots to the arm

at least i finally passed out, i tell her with a grin

i never actively engage with any work that i do

work is like a foreign city

barely visible through the clouds

through the fumes of burnt bodies

there lies work

and i must remain detached and celestial

or face those very real consequences

and there is no honour in being burnt

weed makes me write

smack makes me right

i spent hours telling my stories to their blank faces

and they wonder why i’m scarred from the outside in

one more shot in the right arm is all thats left

i surmise

scary hands resting in front of me

the veins have gone underground

into hiding

tired i’m sure of the relentless hammering

of blunt needles

i try and trace those lines

up my arms under the ink

through the inside of the elbow

yellow and blue

punished and bruised

all for a ride to the insane plateau


and boo!

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