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there’s a ticking sound
coming from
my chest and it
doesn’t ever shut up.
never.
and my mouth
is open, hanging agape
like hooks and barbed
wire upon some old
cathedral doors.
and i’m talking
again, (you fool)
and i’m saying things
again
and again
as i always do.

who is the murderer here?
who is the victim
and where is the
crime
being portrayed on
late night
television?
because i’ve
got seasons tickets
to watching the flowers
grow and wilt and die
all over the fuck
on your body, pal.

and i paid a lot.

and i’m collecting.

– r.o.a

Listening to: Touché Amoré – Honest Sleep [album: …to the beat of a dead horse]

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