No Cigar - Meanwhile, Back in Communist Russia.mp3
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[00:21.476]The bruise at the base of my spine is butterfly shaped, dressed and downstairs.[00:26.331]My mother's eyes flinch away from a skinniness I'm obvious to.[00:30.538]Lank-haired,skin splotched with bruises like split wine.[00:34.811]Some few drunken strangers trying to lock their eyes into a body thats slowly disappearing,[00:41.174]sitting-curled in on myself,[00:44.294]at the centre of this, there must be a sort of purity if I just work myself in a little deeper.[00:49.938]The bones that catch the cold and hold it must point somewhere.[00:53.509]Waking, snared in the limbs of someone I never see again - an unfamiliar voice trying to pin me down with sleep-fuzzed concern.[01:01.338]He's slack. Flesh bags round his waist and I'm repelled,[01:05.841]"I'd do anything not to have to touch."[01:08.686]Curling tighter around a hunger that cuts to the bone,[01:11.679]trying to find the centre that must be round here somewhere.
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