all i get these days is blood,
blood in a bird's beak, blood
trailing from a coat-tail
on the ground, blood
mirroring on the floor
and flowering in the whites
of my eyes, blood pouring
down from burst pipes, bursting
upward as it fills my mouth and
i spit it into the air, blood
racing outwards at a whim,
gathering at pores and then
lurching forward as if drawn
by a magnet, blood reflected
in the reverential shine of a
freckled face. all i get these days
when i try to clear my head is
birds and bursting vessels and
blood, and blood, and blood.
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