Coping on the horizon as the internet stretches and bleaches the stitch

My arrow anxiety, the daily archery to the artery

Or was it his soul? The wound is pink anyway, awkward like chicken wire on my arm

There is no pen to grip, just keys to mash

Only organic, gluten free craft free porter free from additives

Sexually coloured like a ruby cloud in my glass

I pour it over my skin

And comb the intestines of Temple Bar in the wind

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