Tuesday, 17 March 2009

SHOT NO 28, by Anthony Sides



You make yourself ill with the poisons they sell, the poisons they tell you will make you feel well. All the small cruel things that you wish you hadn't done, all the spin the bottle chances that you wish you hadn't spun - all the rooms you've cried in.

You think the whole world's made of sugar, or is it just a bitter pill?

Kissing sissies in the corridors - of your mother's mind, and if you looked for your real feelings what failings would you find? All the lies you've underlined.

Now your hair at the back is pink and thinned and you hide your collar bone from the wind and your school made you feel uptight. Rain rains rainy on the dusty glass and you wonder how many things can last and will any one last with you.

Old, lonely people talking in circles to stop silences; and every song is like Sunday.

All the small cruel things that we wish we hadn't done. All the spin-the-bottle chances that we wish we hadn't spun. All the rooms we've cried in.





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