This is like an online notebook, this stuff is not finished or often even started properly.

Take your pension with a whiskey chaser.

Let the stream rise
And the condensation slide the bottle around your palm
Cross your heart and hope to die
With smoke anchored lips and lungs caving in
From Begging for volume
Let the smoke settle on your fuckable curves
While you cough the blues at all the mirrors in this city
Screaming with undone shoe laces
On the steps of a long dead lovers house
She had been pretty as a film star
Weathered the storm
Grow old how I want to
With a young man’s dancing feet
And hunger for pigment and bodily fluids
Grow thorns , wings and breathe fire to scorch bar stools
Blow the windows out with your last gasp
Skin tearing at the edges.

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