mark sandman is dead

i stare

in the mirror with the lipstick kiss

upon its glass

 

and the razor

of every day

on the ledge

of the sink

as the toilet flushes away

the throw up

from the last drink

 

BEAUTIFUL

FUCKED UP

MAN

she used to say

 

broken hand

and a hole

in the wall

unfortunately

the one between her legs

was the only one

she would let me fill

 

i got guilt

i got fear

i got regret

i got pictures under my bed

 

as the moon hangs low

orange behind the train station

a cat giving birth

under a buick riviera

and the fog horn sounds

over the harbor

the tide beating the shore

like a dog

with peanut butter on its nose

 

the smell of metal cooking

in the wall heater

like an iron on a shirt

 

and her in my arms

3am on a winters nite

on a carpet of stars

as the rain falls

and the homeless knock

against the windows

while climbing the fence

to the collapsing house next door

and their dirt bed

beneath a wall

 

mark sandman is dead

 

i stare

in the mirror with the lipstick kiss

upon its glass

and move

my reflection

so

its kiss is upon me

 

as the toilet finishes

i turn

heading for another drink

 

the number 7 is luck

in japan

 

but

there are just four walls

the bottle

and me

 

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