March 14, 2004

Sipping at teas, fingering through words.
A small pleasure, a relief. Is is really that fucked up?
Avoid the red cliche.
It’s nine in the morning and you’re stuck in the basement,
clawing away every affection and effect you’ve ever had.
Slight a silloughette, a blur of nonsense
grab it like gloves,
slip in on like a shadow.
Suitable situations, shallow in truth,
intollerable intoxication, intricate wounds
decorating the deformed and malformed enigma
of
your
mind.

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