the margins are minuscule in this cruel season it’s hard enough to raise a buck never mind
a smile I sing with the
crows
and bathe in the dark cold fibre is scant reward for all
the bareback adventures and romantic misdemeanours that blot my copy book (kudos to the
phallus imperator)
my chapped
lips and caffeine smile reveal there’s fear in my monkey his silver
tongue and leaden heels have me hobbled in the blocks those softer metals conduct static directly
to the brain pan
and my blood’s impurities leave
a tell-tale stain on the inside but there’s no point in concealment no-one gives a fuck what’s written
there anyway
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