Plasticine Parade

I measure my scotch in terms of those
meaningless songs, late night when the eyes get up
from floorboards

and I am alone,
there is nothing left
but the bottle,
there is nothing left
in the bottle,

but still you came, your throat rusty
with music and smoke,
telling me that
we are rabid under the mud,
filthy and tired of existing

sick of everything
yet in that dark, we found light:
we tasted wanting tongues against the spirits
we found light

and it tasted bitter
from the luminosity that surrounds you

because I wanted that bright
as my own;
because I wanted that
as my own;

so it goes,
when you go
I tell my friends, grief
will always drink with you
but it is
a jealous companion

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