these battered days

kept in an old tin cup

like the mutterings of defining moments

spycraft used by gutter punk girls

and the long hours of pestilence

inquire as to the day

but i am hobbled by the lack

of words



and my vision is

jacked up by impurity's in my dope

and

this is not a rig...its a railroad spike

she leans in to steal some

and i ****** it back

then just to confound her

i hand her all my dope

take it

ill get more

and i kiss her