Thumbing the evening down to the seagulls, feather crust, gumming chunks, crumb.
Shite-y artefacts of a meal royally deconstructed.
For the best case,
living inside and out of it,
I'm moving towards when I'll finally get laid open
and, clattered by the kids,
looking up to see who has passed,
I'll have been run through, clutching my bare shin in agony.
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