its warm in here
when reality slides with the rusted wing creak of dry insect flight.
i am holding a burning match but the light ain't bright,
nothing is right,
nothing is right.
i used to talk to god but she went away without a word or a kiss goodbye
and now napolean without shoes
rages at the walls with his plastic spoon held high.

at night they speak,
as lightbulbs do,
with sodium dry tongues that tell of life before death in the rancid cobweb dusty corner plains of my room.
sweet little room.
wank stained sheets,
piss painted floors,
shit hole room with rubber walls and no sharp objects.
its cold outside.
but the wind cannot touch me here nor her without legs
who dribbles and drools and sits in a puddle of memory. . .
. . .
. . .but it is cold outside?

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