Day 8

Challenge: stop making sense

it’s always darkest before the dawn of the dead

dark windows shine on nights 
spent dreaming his sudden 
severed strings the fates

strum barn stomp 
polka riffs fucking bongos 
on our ribs baby so 
 
at the red light I missed Amy 
with a blade thirsty for my heart
I took it with me to the un-

country for old women 
while the young kept climbing 
into hell in an endless

series of papier mache
hand baskets saying a
sign we need a sign

(sigh) 
I’ll take a shot of bourbon 
right to the brain stem

where it’s darkest at the 
same old same old end I said 
with an empty parens 

(or maybe one of those)
I don't know dot dot dot
thingees amen I meant

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