the machine churns
it just does
whether i approve or not
mostly fekking not
the machine
its hot and heavy
for bullshit and blood
its churning
into
cannibal madness
and
i
can
be
free of it
with the tv
holding onto attenboroughs hand
thru
the
canadian wetlands
where
all
the
murder is blameless
pic from radiotimes.com
used to sit at the tiled desk
ignoring my cold feet
with
a
bottle
and
another bottle
and
dirty
small glasses with thick glass bases
i'd
stare at the table lamp thru
and
churn
out
tiny pops of derision and street litter observation
the piles of old 45s would grow
and
collect
ash
in their charity scratched grooves
now i sit at the same desk with coffee or weird bitter teas
with
chet baker long players
tickling and painting the slower nights prettier
and
churn out smaller pops
of
toilet trips
and
gentler things
but
still churning
which
is
the
main
thing
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