I lost my head still-drunk on saline, joining
my words like a son-of-a-bitch—He knows
I\'m a sore loser, pegging my words still-thrown
in a ditch—I burn-my bible pages out of spite
you know (whiskey not to blame)—O\' lord
of bile, fire-and-horror (I didn\'t catch the name)—
beads-of-sweat reflecting blood, but still I don\'t
see red—I\'m a sore loser (losing) still licking
off the thread—gun-in-my-mouth and it\'s
not my metal (fingers, spit, grime)—anthologies
of poetry (I\'ll never read) next to the train—(anyone
know the time?)
I haven\'t lived-my (life) under
seashells, or become one-with-the-storm—I still
have never touched saline spray, or killed over
(two of) thorns—sand shooting up my-nose
like (medicine), I hardly feel a thing—trigger-happy
books of men, reminiscing about—(spring?)
Asking of antique people, sewn with (neurons,
stars):
I must ask you don\'t read my-eyes, and before
you call me a bitch, help me find my bed—
resting now, dead as fish, I think I\'ve lost my
(head)