Pretty little images.
Still, they don’t reach the core
of sadness.
Chores of break down madness,
bitter calloused weeping,
bilious taunts repeating.
Outrage dregs encrust
my drain
clogging arteries,
eating memories,
etching out rotten stench
interring intestinal walls.
I would love to bleed for you.
Watch the shattered glass
graffiti my windpipe
excellent sprays of red,
eye-popping splendour.
I would never want
to deny you the thrill.
My craggy dry old heart
laughs in anticipation.
Fresh wounds 
always look so fine.

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