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Morgan Alexander Sep 2019
Blued, nickel reflecting light,
Shining on the Reaper.
Frosted steel
Longing to swallow
A half-dozen biscuits

1 part Copper,
1 part brass,
2 parts lead,
1 part saltpeter,
1 part charcoal,
1 part sulfur,

The recipe for the dough.

Once masticated
in jaws of tungsten
It spits the metal bolus,
And gives new name to grim.
Lipstick and cigarettes  
Aligned on the bureau,
Leather and lighters
Scattered around the room.
Needles on the sink
In that Chelsea Hotel,
Blood-filled cracks
Between the ivory tiles,
Running down
My perfect thighs.

Your fans wouldn't have thought
I graduated high school at 15,
Or I wouldn't make it to 25.
When I met you
I knew this would be it.
The *** was good
But the smack was better;
You broke the promises of "eternal"
With a single ****** of a knife
And your malicious intent.

But to me, you were God-like.
My bruise-peppered legs
Kneel before you,

Because I want to become
Your glory and fame.
I needed a savior.
You were a seraph;
My light and my fire;
My eyes bleed from your glory.

But you picked the flowers
That grew between us in London,
And left nothing but roots.
You crossed the T's in your suicide note too low.
You stabbed me
But your knife felt like a kiss,
As the lyrics to
God Save the Queen
Repeated in my head.
Ode to Nancy Spungen

— The End —