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It's really fucking cold...

Warrant For My Home

Picby Marc Lionhart05 Jan 2014

Not a bite to eat. Mould at the bottom of the bird feeder.
I don't half miss my love who succumbed to mournful tears often.
Kisses are blue under UV lights.
Lonesome wingless birds are present in my dreams.
Get out of my head, lift it all up. Blind writing.
Too. Many. Punctuation. Marks.
Full of shit
Is this a question. That's a messed up statement.
Those wires are electric, DO NOT touch them.
Sounds of defecating numbers, smells of burning.
Empty bulb-less street lights. Some tend to flicker but the rest remain silent and haunting.
See the wet street laugh at those walking on it.
Spending a lot of time outside and worrying about kicking farm animals, or the smell of hay.
Been away for a while.
Got no money in my pocket. -1600 on a blue bit of plastic. What the fuck can I do with that?
I ask myself what became of the man I met in the tunnel, like I give a shit, he's gone.
Not a friend of mine. Friends mean money, money I have none.
Got the shakes? I'm not your cold bitch.
Don't worry I'm inside.
Protected from the daggers I shiver and quake to the tune of passing vehicles and drunken pedestrians.
Drains rattle with the pattering of lead drops.
My own feet are cold, not sure about my partner, whoever that is.
Alright my love, night will be over soon and return as per usual. Routine.
Give it another minute and maybe we'll die. Takes a weight off.
Not sure about you but I'm fucking spent.