Roughly as poetic as a bag of smashed arseholes.







Scribble back.


Saturday, 16 October 2010

1. Rot

You hold all that hatred at the palm of your hand
It’s a merry league from where we used to stand
First something, everything – now nothing
That cross we had has rotted
I didn’t speak – it’s true, as silent as a deaf-mute;
The thought of seeing you made my body turn
But I hold no grudge; I know you do
I’m just happy you’ve priors you can relate to

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