Sunday, January 16, 2011

judas, me, need smokes

On your way home, honey, would
it please to buy Judas and me
some smokes? We have yet

to arm ourselves with clothes
and seriously face the day, but
seriously, who swings that way?

We've talked about you, lunging
from the sofa to the
broken yellow chair,

Icarus sailing above us,
all that golden-iron hair
I swear love, would you please

pick me Judas up some smokes?
The sea outside my window
is a-turning. He's gone blurry.

Come home. He's at my throat
and needs be me to relax,
needs not to make me choke

but now we're soaked, honey,
oh no! Come home! Fucking
come home: the flood from the rag

is rung, is rung

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