đừng e dè phát âm sai
Irritations
Author: Toby Fitch
Published on: 9/10/2015 5:08:53 PM

I plant forests, and they wither
behind me. There’s a traffic light
 
in my heart. Which colour? I don’t know.
The high-pitched whine circling my head
 
isn’t a vulture, it’s my halo. My double haunts me
in windows and lakes; the size of his eyes
 
erodes my mettle. Wherever I travel, metal
detectors go mental and the stink of burnt
 
sugar stalks me – crackling, always crackling.
When I fuck, my mind drifts. My whores
 
say it’s a lack of friction. I guess I’m made
of cold blood, my skull is full of earwigs,
 
my visions littered with wheezing stars:
in the mirror on the ceiling, miracles
 
have ceased. I blunder across these bitter
nebulae, hemlock on my tongue – no wonder
 
I’ve got the sniffles! Only a nightmare
will help me sleep tonight.

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