sober
is
its
own
mad high / my thorazine voice echoes
flat
raw
unmixed unbonus track - thru smoke / always smoke
on
the
fuckstreets of nowhere 21C
straight and unfiltered - the noise is quiet
distant
subdued
still lurid / bold but dulled
i ask who painted flowers that technicolor hangover shade ?
and
the
guy
from work in the high street / Down Town Fucktown 7 pm
holding
white
wine - my comedown booze / who made him go to Spain
and
coloured
him
brown ?
and
who strapped that epic gut on the beast ?
from thedish.plated.com
"Some Questions" intrigued me from the title onward. Clear, precise language about a rough time - with absolutely no self-pity - this poem maintains control and dignity during a period where the brain is askew. A difficult stance for any writer to take - moved me. Joseph Hargraves
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