327 Readings | 2 Ratings

tumultuous swaggering bastard

you never saw me enter
never even saw me breathe
perfect small circles of fog
onto the window  

my nerves sore
i pressed on anyway
kept on every which way
until the limping ends
of my blinking clicked on  
like a fascist stupor
of day-time television  

i left you to bleed-out
in the corner
and ticked of number thirty-seven
on my list of things to do
before i die

i waited for you
to wake again
as a new born fragment
a dwindling remake
of a poem i wrote once before
about the hazards of a bruise
just below the left elbow
that no one else could see.
Posted 08/03/12
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