Livid

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In Camden they brought
flowers, fags, and vodka with
a pomegranate blend
like a bludy munkey
to the empty lot of a jukebox
that swallowed the change.

I died yesterday, oh my gauw
you were still dreaming.
A biza bloke traced that
step to the secret station.
Tings were comically communal.
Paths through scanty fields.
A farmer puzzled by pod sizes.
A righ ole wanke’ licking his lips.
Their u-o’-wight-maid?
Two plus minus seven weeks.

In a slop brick room the window
unusually            high you bare feet
on the bed in a white T and panty
slumped against a wall bleak yellow
streaks of son lashed your back that
fuck awf ya fuckin tossa black hive
of hair the song in those aerie eyes
today the absence of your tattoos

had me

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