Bloody nose again

the iron taste drips down the back of my throat

reminds of sex and immorality

tissue against my nose

morality fell out of my hand some time ago

I say that in a ignorant manor

not a some philosophical way that might make this poem a tad more shallow

I slur words at young lovers

wishing them luck

knowing that there’s a chance one will be left

more broken than the other

I clink glasses with my demons

and pour a swig for the good people

gone too soon

I walk between grave stones looking for one with a great last name

and we become friends.

I tell him over and over I can’t do this

I can’t do this, again

He listens and waits for more of what I have to say

you know because the dead are much better listeners

We sit quiet together

it wasn’t comforting

but, in a comforting way, there are no black birds




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