while listening to the velvet underground
when I really should be sleeping
and am re-evaluating the gin and tonics
that were poured hours ago,
time like a rusty iron chain
hangs in the air,
as if the memory of a dead
dog. Tomorrow morning, I will wake
protesting, feeling for metaphorical sunlight.
The years don't mean a thing to me.
Hide my bones at the bottom of the ocean,
pretend this is origami, tell no one I said hi.
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