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FixedInto disrepair, I will things that work,
Instead choosing to focus on stuck keys
Which stick, in locks licked with black
paint too thick, much like windows
Which don't open in my bedroom
With a fresh gasp and a sting of Autumn rain.
I could fix them with a knife,
Down in the whitewashed crevice,
If I could spare the cutlery.
As it is I'm eating pasta with a spoon.
It doesn't taste any better, but
Doesn't taste any worse, either.
When all clocks read time differently,
Whole days are misplaced in the hallway
Between bed, bath and beyond –
Which invariably reveals itself to be nothing
More majestic than the sticky surfaced kitchen.
Maybe one day I'll find the minutes lost
Down the back of the sofa with the awkward
But until then tomorrow will continue
To hold as much meaning as a word
Repeated ad infinitum
Ad infinitum, ad infinitum.
A Bloody, Stupid Miracle The day we’d cured the human condition was the day I put a bullet through my head and didn’t die. It was also the day I realized how scared I actually was of death, and after hours of muscle ache from holding that gauze against my open skull, after the wound closed and everything went back to normal, I had myself a good old-fashioned brainstorm. How ironic.
But when summer came, everything had fallen to shit. The air scorched my skin and parched my tongue every time I took a breath. The sun glared down on a rapidly-collapsing world, full of the undying bastard children of cruelty and misfortune. What was one to do when their cells regenerated faster than they decomposed?
My feet hit the pavement, now littered with jagged bits of glass to snap at my toes, thoroughly baked by the blazing ball of bitter disdain high overhead. Today was worse than yesterday. Though I’d often wondered the purpose of it anymore, I
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