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Fifth Chances

The truth lies in my liver.
Dead cells, regenerating
the lies that I've swolled
with the 500mg, 200mg, 300 -
                                            (don't.)

Three blind mice with scentless cheese,
and a deaf-mute leading their chase.
No, there is nothing wrong with
this Picasso-like portrayal of life
from the inside of a rotting form

that self-destructs

regular as irregular sleep







Author notes

(just add imagination
and three servings
of truth)




It's not meant to be make sense or be brilliant poetry. It's supposed to be a mess.

    I plan to revise this poem: please leave constructive criticism!
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Comments

1 - 5 of 5

  • logorrhoea
    December 31, 2008
    Edit | Reply
    I'm bookmarking this "mess" by the way.

  • logorrhoea
    December 31, 2008
    Edit | Reply
    Oh - or just "regular".


  • logorrhoea
    December 31, 2008

    Edit | Reply
    Wow. Brilliant nonetheless. I absolutely love the first stanza. Real gut-punch detail, it's perfect in darkness. And the second, twisting metaphor. How the hell did you get so good?!?!?? I want to know .

    "As regularly as irregular sleep" I'd finish it there,but lose the first "as" or maybe another word for irregular?? This is great stuff, seriously. I envy it.

1 - 5 of 5