i want to smell of smoke again
i want to breathe and choke again
i’m tired
i want to drink and weep ink again
i want to cut at my temple
with the thinnest of paper
or the sharpest of tin
to reveal all the species
i hide from myself
i want to pull at her white-like hair
from the plugs in her fatty scalp
and toast a new age
of no sticks
no stones
no mourning backed world
of mother-can-care
and complete emotional crutch
and ease off of life
remove your footing from the devotional clutch
and the pounding of my head
and the wrong end of the bed
and dwell that we wish
netting gills ; forever dead
An old one...about thirteen years ago
No significant alterations made