“Don’t Molt”

Is it eight am yet?

What do i need, lies?

Tiles cleaned for girls night,

Candy-floss extensions of hate.


Sitting remembering the gemologist,

Am i back on the breast?

A stubborn cliche

A combination of words.


A Maggie

A black cat

A text

A feeling that’s down.

A low

Another day

Another hangover

Another inhalation.


Track between England, fog between pints.

Hindered by disgrace,

Looming black.

Nineteen, cold or Islam, having an attire off.



I salute you your honor,

Vape, fiddle, listen, sit,

Back on the seat before dawn.


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