Monday, December 10

Hungover Train Station

the lines straight quiet;
no force nor patter
the distance lays there

in each way an iron line
and here a public
toilet of cold piss and

graffiti, I took my vended
pepsi, my limp
urinal, my shattered humour

and spilled in the country
side around me
the death I had brewed

which Saturday night gave
me in shots
of unmistakable joy

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