September 23, 2011 § 3 Comments

Like the fretful strings of an aging guitar, I can hear you wailing
Can hear your plea to the hot end of the cigarette pressed to your lips
as though the flame that licks your lungs may
the demon that breathes in your chest, but the carcass that lay
In the tray at your right hand
shows no harm to it
Alive and breathing it is seizing
hold of everything you fail to grasp
Unknowingly symbiotic, you
Play host and hostess to the monkey on your back
You are lighting, burning, flaming
for phoenix song arising
but ashes still are falling, charring all the chords you’re scrawling
Kindling’s growing taller as your lyrics lay to waste
Desperate tabs spell SOS but you’ve found no
Saving grace


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§ 3 Responses to #104

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You are currently reading #104 at Authored Angioplasty.


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