Not
Quite
Not
quite, is it? No. They’ve not yet been there.
Never
dazzled to become, are, will be;
chewn
gristle, sipped pissle, flossing hair
with
razor wire until why can’t they see
mine
for me, as Morrissey singing
you
tried so long, profess second sight
bleached
words in your head keep ringing
you
earned the right, oh maybe not quite.
Scant
the huddle-muddle nooks
to bullhook
lost lambs, singled, push
reluctant,
preach broke china crock
of
shit behind back handed hush:
shush
- lisper ‘I like not that’,
cross-stitched
smirk bespattered face
that
bitter green spittle racked
cat-spite
can’t quite erase
what’s
left inside of brain,
where
greed hob-gobbles grasp
for name,
pushing inane,
bitch
filed nails rail and rasp,
strip
mine wiser tongues.
Use soft
boiled malice
words
to corrupt young
minds,
not quite callous
in
twisting knife.
Dark
in corner,
stabs
stiffs in strife
all
who mourner.
At any rate,
spreading
good
contemplates
a
sainthood
grip
bag
lip
sneer,
tits
sag
fake
tears
all
right:
Not
quite.
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