Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Tobacco and Shit

Her elbows smell of tobacco
and her shit smells of burnt toast
She's dead, but in my dreams
she's warm and real, no ghost
She dresses up for going out,
and down for going in
And spits out all the little words:
"Alright?" "ok?" "how you been?"

She sits in sunlight shaving off
the hardest parts which grow
Removing and refining,
a buffer for the ego
Every day another
opportunity for sleep
Every night another dream,
Slept calmly, slept deep.


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