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ah christ, writers are the most sickening!
Verses bloated with cigar stains, wine glasses lying toppled,
any excuse to talk about grass!
If it doesn’t come, wrench it out,
grab it’s neck,
pull
the fucking trigger.
It’s only enough if you’ve bled for it,
starved for it,
if it holds you captive, embedded in ink.
If it leaves claw marks on your back, you know it’s good,
it’s decent, it’s
enough.

Oh

What a crew.
What a night!
Writing, each of us,
until knuckles grow bruises like paint strokes and it’s last call everywhere but here.
Until tongues drag
across bitter pavements, scorched by asphalt,
sends us sprinting into back alleys to smoke cigarettes with the mad and disillusioned.
What a crew!
What a mess!

Each one of us bearing scars and secrets like Highlanders bore wine skins,
dotting lines with apologies and fuck yous simultaneously,
and all for the love of
what?

What is it that propels us
like helicopters or planes,
drives us into the same lyric filled lanes?
I used to think it was blood.
Born of a woman who sacrificed her own skin to make mine,
I couldn’t seem to think of lines that didn’t involve wolves
or wine
or self destruction in some way.
But not today.
Today I am fresh spring meadow
plagued by bees and breeze
and in my veins there are fucking symphonies,

and that’s on you,
that’s
not all you but it helps.

Writers are the most sickening.
All our hearts are drowning in vomit and bad verse, clumsy attempts to console the sky
even though it’s not listening

but I am
and you are
and that is all that matters.

They call us star gazers
but looking up always strains my neck.
I’d rather look down at the human,
gutted and rising,
than depend on the heavens for my soul,
so,

I guess I never learn my lesson,
always ask fifteen questions at a time
and have a chronic need to make everything rhyme.
I’ve been talking to ghosts instead of praying to God above
and to steal a line from Sam Small, it’s gotta be love.

Yes, of course!
Love
sending us skipping through verses, tangling us up in words.

It’s love,
it’s love,
it’s
enough

Aphrodite, she
writes poetry too,
much better than mine.
That explains it all then,
doesn’t it? That explains
everything.

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