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Leaning on a Razor

bleary morning blues slide me
down into the morning after: sunlight
pounding through gritty
windowpanes, takes pleasure in
shaking me and making me taste
my wooly mouth.  Ainít
no shower clean enough to shed 
my midnight skin, and the one I got
only drums me into
syncopation with this dayís
rhythm, so howís a guy supposed 
to wake up?  Visine implanted
eye-socket deep, but my eyes 
match Mary: bloody as hell.  And
the white-hot wisdom
that eluded me last night, throbs
forgotten through the back of my head.

Let my beard
grow:  
Iím in no mood
for leaning
on a razor.

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