Sunday, 8 November 2009

LC

dark
night and cold
air.

all our scenes
blossoming
into dusty
memories.

words have left
me, so i pass this
one
over

reality must have
hit right
home.
a home run,
they say.

run home you fool,
i'm making pan
cakes
and you're
all
out
of
eggs.

pre-made mix?
fuck
off.

one hundred and eleven is as
high
as she'll go.
cheap thrills merely cover
the
overwhelming despair.

what could you find
under
my nails?
baked
like a
tatty.
masses applaud
cheesy beans.

do this again.
don't,
who said that?

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