THE HOUR COUNTED- THE FINAL HOUR
Pencils draw pictures
in cocaine lies
straight lines,Â
pain I dated
 she will not leave
her collections of hearts, amazing they seem
stitched with the same disease
Musical moments hanging
on trees
gulping the breath
spread as painted movie scenes
her silk was skin
orchards bled the red lips
caustic serpent skiesÂ
feasted on her orbital thighs
and black tears
withered on the trails kept in
bursting pools of vision
retreat swallowed
through portal eyes
it was a Saturday
seated on gin
I started to peel the skin from boredoms view
counting hours as pills to be taken
death visited but wrote
on my wall
sorry mistaken
a museum
in objects
a gallery
ragged in art
requests unowned
beaten pulled apart
sleep the weeping song
sung as corners gather
seated i
the throned foolish man
wrapped in the fist of curl
no clocks
time has no domain
as I wait
death comes again
the pencil sharp
throwing up my written fame
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