Thursday, February 05, 2009

hand eczema

Srtike out a coiling serpent poisoned umbrella handle.

Clasp tight scrolls and curves and wishes and spell burned autographs.

Curdle sweet memories in today’s horrorzone.

A pond of fear. How deep? How dark?

A tree stump, cut back too much, it never grew back.

They don’t wink at me in the morning.

A smile is a once monthly gift and usually with strings attached.

My real prize is painful skin,

I can’t grasp, couldn’t think of picking up the guitar.

Like the Singing Detective living in my right hand.

Curse you!

My name is not JOB.

Fuck OFF.

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