Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Mad Poem. On Ending. (15/30)

We both die anyway, so what's the hold-up? And if I remember correctly I'm almost dead already. My heart is yellowed with alley-way blow jobs and my blood is a waning city, old bricks and poison, going straight to this brain.

I'm mostly done.
My maps are folded with creases deeper than graves.

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