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Never Write Poetry With A Hangover
By Christian Ward
I fed last night’s verse
packs of cigarettes
and half opened cans
of Guinness
brown rimmed craters
started to appear like
cracks in the pages,
but I was too sober to notice;
I still had the taste
of the half eaten
verse in my mouth,
which was slowly
falling out, leaving
holes in the carpet.
A postcard of better times
still hangs in the back
of my mind.
I haven’t destroyed that yet.
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