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Not Today Death

Your cheek, the colour of winter clouds,
I lay my hand against it.
Zigzag lightning crack of an old shrapnel wound falls phosphorescent
from your forehead to the corner of your mouth, which hangs slack,
a twist of green bile hacked up from your gut's sea clings to your chin
as readily as seaweed coughed up by the briny clings to a rock.
You sleep a drugged sleep; dreamless? I know not. Surface or deep? I know not.
Everybody's Talkin from Midnight Cowboy plays low,
if you were awake and I told you,
"you look like Ratso Rizzo on his last day,"
you'd die laughing.

17 May 18

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excellent  pictorial references
 — rivergood

Thanks RG.
 — Bruiser

Bruiser what’s your bio and motivation for this
 — unknown