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Bad poetry as the sun uncoiled and rose it’s brain
from the wet nest of the night its fangs
bit me sleeping in blue briefs
still drunk from it almost being Christmas
and from the way the barista looked at me
when I asked her to put some vodka in my coffee
just between us
then it turned the sky red
or pink, me still half-asleep
and sent the rest of Christmas coming
like a cannonball
into a ship.
