| Well, night piles in -
drunk again, breaks the back of Friday, and throws the twitching body to - the ground. Right there next to me I hear old bones a-creak and crackin� something like a bad joke but what can you do - call the karma-medics? �Everything must die or be torn apart� they�ll say - and inject another shot of poison so the week can end its misery and drown in dark blood and spit and its own unconscious making. The stink of mercy killing hits me then so I up and stand - and empty in the gutter every shred of other days I got stashed away in pockets and my cigarette smoke mind full of bars and throw-up alleys. Might as well accept that nothing�s fixable and anyway the weight just gets me down and dirty with its smell - It won�t be long til Sunday finds - I�ll still be here and near a whole heap of mad and broken down confusion |
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