Drafts 3

4:00 am anti sleep
About as dried up as the pigeon corpse in between the bodega and my front doors. 

Make no art, only a tequila whore. 

Aching muscles and bruises to chew on. 
Maybe bad news is some kind of hard on. 

Promising fuck up sucked up too much evil slip up. 

Turned into dirty oil gets stuck and stained underneath your fingernails can’t get rid of it, scrub till ya skin raw, now you dirty, too. 

Sometimes I remember that the stories are true. 

When Naukie was my only name, 
and I was only chasing bad bad for my veins. 

Go to sleep afternoon twelve wake up at evening eight. 

On so many drugs, I ask her what are the words that I usually say.

Laughing through a car crash,

Shaking under three heated blankets, bones got more fear than cold.

It’s like the times I’ve convulsed out of control. 

Can almost count my overdoses past my fingers shoved down my throat so that I can make it through the night.

Fifteen is a bullshit frame of mind.

His sweat smells like shit when he’s face to face with my drunk motherfucker breath.

But liquid courage, I grab you back, it won’t happen again.

And baby opens the door with sharp knife and crying words “get the fuck away from my sister.”

I tell the cop I’m just an asshole ‘cause you ain’t trust a government mister.
I tried to keep my mouth shut a long time ago. 

Cocaine, we sing the same.
You know my way back home.

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