my car in shop
i am under-the-weather
insomnia on top of that
the gods already took away
everything else: love, wine, cigs
now stranded
between the walls
& w/in this weary shape
poetry is all that is left
like one fucking wooden match
in jet black space
but enough i suppose
to start some kind of heat
This blog is updated irregularly and has nothing to do with the poet's output. The poet is actually disturbingly prolific. He writes about 5 poems per day. The pages are everywhere, even stacked in the bathtub.
Blog Archive
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2010
(103)
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September
(15)
- seizing the poison
- a quick note on genius
- the lack of everything
- un-jump-startable souls
- the fucked-up human stain
- if only we can die like this
- i feel like
- i can smell the stench from here
- born w/a cemetery in my chest
- gazing right through the dancing girls
- unwantingly speared
- the gory game
- darkness retained
- where the fuck is the relief
- one of yr animals dies
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September
(15)