Tuesday, 14 September 2010


A polyester uniform, poorly stitched
Into my skin like a mark of ownership,
The threads themselves are
cold-fire chains
Fastened around my withered limbs,

Whilst time itself is a leash of molten lead

Tightened by my wasted thoughts.

Reflected in the fading shine of my £20 shoes

I see no reason to be awake and no reason to sleep,

Except that being one avoids being the other

But either way there are no dreams or nightmares,

Just a question that has no answer

Because I can not
afford one.

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