Struck dumb by a mild dose
Of contentinitus
I hang to old social media posts,
like a barfly holds onto a drunken dream.
Squirrelled beneath the stairs
I watch the world spin
And wait for malady to return,
wanting more
Like hungry grave craving
Dirt falling on mortis body
Placating grey silence of death
With red platelets of inner horror
Carpets smeared
With amorphous art from
Untwisting the stomach’s loathing
Grown bloated with love
And from nowhere I’m dancing
Blindly to a playlist
Compiled ten years ago, while...
Truth's blow strikes low
So drunk I sway to slow songs
And drink and dance
The tango with my impassive
Mistress the night.
Till all I hear is the folk songer
And understand what he means
When he sings: “New York, New York, you're nearly gone”
Like pernicious ghostly whispers
Of that raven beaked beauty
Who taps at my bedframe
Till the madness which follows me
Drives me from my bed.
And at half-mast I dance
Dance, dance, in the lamplight
And wait for love
Or boredom or hate
To tear me apart again.
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