Monday, July 11, 2011

new (revised) poem


sometime later,
I cleared the container,
past Palmetto,
I  can't remember,
there were three
of you,
each of you
thinner, trashing
Father's office
in search of
substance, of a 
quiet death, or
at least its option,
the next morning,
after Klonopin,
I lost Lorna again
between some
buildings, abandoned
near the Emporium,
I think I threw up
on the grass
when I saw her
thrashed behind
her red hair haywire,
matted with liquor,
eyes moving
like flying saucers
through the swampy
summer air.

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