Saturday, 3 March 2012

night life

I set the clocks,
sat wracked,
the slatted blinds like gills,
arching out street light,
over wet skin,
sticky as split oranges,
blinds breathing,
in and out
comes the eternal day,
and the sound,
of drunk nothing,
let them rot apple on their tongues,
and feed off the fermentation,
drinking in their own bullshit,
louder than planes,
stupid as sheep,
and again I can't sleep.

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