G.I. Bleed.

I can’t get the smell out of my head,
like a noose around the neck,
I am choking.

I lay like Laura Palmer
and I won’t answer.
I don’t answer.

Oh, paternal prayer,
the waxed floor will never be clean.

I am moonshine bogus,
a plight on the answers I seek.

If nothing holds,
then hands are broken.
and like a boxer, I move on.

No being is complete. A face that won’t sing.
No light goes.
No light goes.

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