The Working Wounded

Bad Poetry, from when Maria and I split up. Please don’t read this.

To the tune of: Soundgarden – Black Hole Sun

Gogol #3

Shards and splinters at the centre of the black
Rotating, clashing, pulling
I look down, aghast
And draw my lapel across,
daintily, hoping it doesn’t show.

Even so;
it gnaws and itches;
grinds nerves and memories
together beneath my shirt’s pun like
matched ends of a broken bone.

I walk on.
It doesn’t show.

Argue with me