to the management | a skinny poem

We rouse in vicious morning to dress after a suicide, zippered boots jeans, t-shirt pea coat venting, a mosquito ablaze on last night\’s stubble rash a stew of causal nuisance nothing too fancy disarmingly attired, hobbled from the first The Watford Gap a jockey might advance to put his nag down gently fuck off, fuck off and die in the fashion of dice, an equestrian ruse no tie, colours lashed, bruised a breakfast of losers a banquet a bouquet of serrated roses no thorns for John or Jane Doe Dom Perignon over dawn twin rum babas No raincoat famously truncated let them come out in the wash We lean on a rod of our poor back\’s devising we would not have it any other way, we might sooner not have it at all for where we dwell in dreams of self maiming there we relentlessly pursue.
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