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Those tar colored slimy talks are dripping from your mouth,
She is coming after you on these marks,
She is still the same,
but time is not,
Your aghast wandering is not the same,
the dead body on your shoulders is not the same,
there is no end of this,
and she is still following you,

oh, you can't take this,
it's burning you,
you loose your temperament,
turn around and speak the words I put in your mouth,
"For God's sake Eurydice,
Stop Following me."

then, there is she, there is you,
and there is me on your shoulders.
I was going to write today
But this morning I felt like ****
My stomach was all knotted up
And the pounding in my head wouldn't quit.

I saw your face and it made me sick
So I said
"**** this"
And went back to bed.
i spent seven days in a foxhole
eating sand and burying the secrets
of former lovers.
i gave myself the silent treatment
for the first four days
then i sang for the other three.
i dreamed of cowboys and westbound trains
and i had an old sack full of bottles
so i wasnt alone.
i was a fine toothed comb
or a skill saw
and i felt useful for once in my life.
i crushed a box of lightbulbs on
the fourth night
and i found the prettiest place to sleep.
i hung photos on the wall of the prison
to keep me happy
and missing you.
now i live in the basement of the world
and i wish for nothing more
than a swiss army knife and
one word from you.
A friend told me
she didn't want
to see anyone

Maybe that was
an approximation,
but maybe

it was only
a glorified
exaggeration,

and really she
just didn't want
to see me--

because I know
she is not home
right now; yet

her mother and
stepfather and
her dogs are.

So whom
instead of me
is she seeing?

and who
instead of me
is so loved?
© K.E. Parks, 2012
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