this isn’t about the cure
Scratch with both hands, like
a drum roll. The stinging chorus,
blood seeps out
of my Dennis Potter skin. I lift
her CD from the open tray.
Its’ slicing satisfies where its’
songs didn’t. They fell like lead when
they ought’ve floated,
as childrens' sentences do.
Her hair, black/grey like an
early winter’s evening.
What does she, care?
“With yr eyes
like that, you look
like Robert Smith circa 1982”,
but this isn’t about the
cure.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
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