Nonsense.

Sophisticated French against the dry taste of a morning after,
Is getting over cocaine decaffeinating too? Speaking in metaphors, and corsets that are too tight
Starch hovers in the hollow of my eyes.
Mutated, into words that I once knew, now staring at my face like an iron bell,
Quasimodo, where are you
My ugly soul crying for the conscience knell.

Day after, when the fuzz of the tub is a few deflated suds, revealing the clogged drains underneath,
Candles are pools of ungainly wax, your head feels swollen like a balloon.

Air, air I am filled within and without, with an emptiness that gets more full
Ironing the creases that I couldn’t get out,
Burning my skin in the process.

Balance, lines, morning after, when you see if the infection past on or stayed
Contagious disease jump on you, only after it is too fucking late.

Sense, sense, where is sense, so called and sought after,
The sneeze in my nose, bubbled out like sadistic laughter.

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