Kristen de Kline #83 all sorts of fucked up things turn round (Thanks Kit)

all sorts of fucked up     things     get lost
soup spoons fridges sharp knives garlic crushers book cases

constant cravings run through your
veins     planets turn     thorns in your side  turn out to be
bundles of lies    planets turn       whiz past the
darkest phase     somebody  gets in deep      beneath your skin
takes a really long, drawn-out      hack    
at the vein closest to your left wrist  

some days he wins the battle: no coffee car park office contract
on Lawless Road you sit with Former People     slice
your self      thickly thinly    using a stolen serrated knife
in His room With a View     he cracks open the Verve    
two signatures and one initial     a mirror breaks    mosaic shards
don't run     away     yet

you can hear yelling down at Lawless Road     somebody lights a candle      language you've never
heard before      joyful     not angry     almost a faint strain
of laughter bouncing through it     you feel content, warmed     even Plastic Linda is not
malfunctioning     she listens reflectively as you read her favourite poets out loud: Bukowski Stein Ginsberg  
in the darkest phase      all sorts of

fucked up      things     turn around
good times stroke your hair, kiss your lips
Indian restaurants on Oxford Street    disappear into a
haze of old memories    constant cravings waver half-way up your arm
thorns in your side     prickle here and there     beneath your skin  

some days     all sorts of fucked up things
get up out of the darkest phase    scream loudly
kiss wildly      the fucked up things make their way out of bed
wash their bodies get dressed eat breakfast drink two plungers of coffee
read the Saturday paper     for no good reason      all sorts of fucked up things turn around
you catch yourself     smiling     a mirror breaks      you catch
yourself     turning around      running away
you catch yourself
falling, turning
you catch yourself