Sunday, 4 November 2012

Bad Wired Female

So do I have to lick

the shit

someone sprayed up the subway wall

then spit out

a pretty French word

no one has used since Sagan?

'Is that actual

or metaphorical shit?' you ask

before I hide inside

my latest dream sequence

and hope for a drop

of short term solution

in my tea

so I'm adequately knocked out

to only attempt a suicide jump

from the edge of my bed.

That comfort cell

killing my voice

with fear, inhibitions

and financial excuses.

Bad wired female


don't know political

career in weight loss,

my feet resting on a floor safe

until pay off day.

Faithless, I could stand

inside an inverted cross

or slogan

mass produced to fit

so keep it on

and march blank bannered

over a difficult dance floor

in circles,

to impress any new face

before panic speed accusations

of misunderstandings of

the flowery print

on a badge pinned to my skin.

A decoration

looking for a church

to sit down in.

What will they give me,

protein and

a question;

'do you despise me?'


but do you desire me

to say




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