Morning Every morning they come Those birds like bullets In my ear drums Those sounds so maniacal They rob my heart of a beat And send me twisting from my sleep. And when I look across the bed And wondering why that smell remains Of perfumes distant and unnamed I think of women I’ve surely shamed. Are you the last on the line? Electrified And stone? I twist the blinds with my fist All rosy-cheeked and swollen And think, you bastard birds With your perpetual swansong When will it ever end? I lie back swallowed…
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