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 shan't sleep it away

outside the snow is knee-deep
a wild, cold, blowing day
red rag in her hand
someone in the hall
photographs on the walls
drunk all of the time
a cold panic shooting through
like an inebriated batman
in a struggle with death itself
over an old, half-sunken grave
in the cemetery of the chapel
a diagnosis of neurasthenia
scrimshankers and degenerates
hands burned red from wringing
it was becoming a tic
like the astrological signs
the empty sky and the stars
not a sound in the world
i wish i could be at home
but you don’t get to choose

#dadaist #poetry