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Got a case of the mean reds
your lips curve and hang heavy on my soul
too many ‘one more drinks’ washing me out
empty but for ashes and used up feelings
phrases that still knock around my head,
looking for some kind of soil to be planted into.

But I’ve got nothing except fire and salt.
Barren and bitter.
Convinced of piss-poor psychopathy,
boiling my own insides with questions on the burner
sorry never heals a wound like this.

You were the alphabet foundation of my learning,
being better by osmosis, greedy fingers clutching at borrowed goodness.
You’re on a witch hunt for the demons in my soul
coaxing them out with coffee, fucking them into submission
soothing my dreams from me
with a comfort that consumes.

Misapplied affection when Heaven’s car park’s full
my best intentions never go unpunished.
Free will spilling into heart-searing sin,
sitting here gorging on the words I should have said
choked by truth and cowardice.

I’ve got no Elastoplast
nothing left but wishes on magpies and first stars.
If wanting something enough ever worked
we’d have that picket fence by now
and it would keep the nightmares out.
Just when I thought there was normal.
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Submitted on
January 8, 2015
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