Thursday, 12 April 2012

11: Clods

Behind and bloodshot,
arse dragged along the floor
like a sick cat, pissed at
this gold Buddha muttering
tranquil, tranquilizer darts,
tranquility. Furious. The
skin on my fists shrunk
in the suds and they curl
to claws, cuticles gaped,
scabs like pregnant ticks.

Behind and bloodshot while
morning keens like a sickly
bairn, I try to type with a
hacking rat-ta-tack.

Phlegm on the laptop,
clodding and damp.

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