antipoet's blog

blood moon

on a blood moon rise
thin cloud obscures clarity
and it rains black dogs
and swings me fast
that chronic flight of ideas
hits big this time
a bitumen fist
can’t smoke enough cigarettes
this elaborate frantic discussion
with too many voices, like axes
which may or may not
be real. an unbearable irritation.
trying to dance it off
like there’s nobody watching
but they’re real to him, okay?
are you okay?
mental as, he said, speech slurred
voice muddy, smoky.

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