Monday 23 January 2012

of pillows

Bite, bite slow, bite hard, bite once and once more. Food comes slowly-slimy. The burnt meat crumbs laced with reddish sauce and yellow-phlegmed noodles. Bite, we’ll never surrender. She swallows her pills and high as a kite wants to feed us. I’ll bite her finger to the bone. Behind the cupboard rests her stash of bottles. In the afternoon she shouts about the whores of the Universe. Her world drown in fucking-machines. Under her pillow the kitchen knife guards against them. We lock our doors and pray for fire

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