Gangrenous light leaking through broken blinds
In-house porn and empty bottles
Spreading like a plague across vomit-stained carpet
Cold showers, bad pizza and vodka chasers
Sounds of humping drumming on paper-thin walls
Cries of ecstasy or agony, hard to know which
And me here with a bottle of Scotch
Because hanging myself would seem devoid of art
Though this would be the place to do it
Bile in my throat, shit on TV and a hole in my heart
You took your smell away as if it were a joke I didn’t get
Found it everywhere like a signal I couldn’t decipher
Wedged in creases, toned in foam
Like a ghost who exists not as an aspect of the dead
But a whisper of the distant living
Anonymous furniture begging the question
Why are you here? What are you running from?
Room 32 judges me just as you did
My testimony invalid, falling short, fucked up
My lies to myself being my undoing
Such that my presence here seems just
Sooner or later the road of love ends for all of us.
© shaun patrick green 2011
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