Old(er). O[(u)/n']t Spot. A(pt).

You’ve allowed the itch to spread
To turn into the dissolution of your back.
Your vertebrae fuse together like virgin lovers in the night.

Float then in the sauce of your memories
Not dry yet but that’s the view developing on the back of your narrowing eye.

Dry eyes.

Dry lives.

You sat on that schoolbus with the discomfort of a bearded, bespectacled twat
Wearing an ‘I’M A RAGING PAEDOPHILE’ t-shirt.
Out of place.
Loss of mind.

I’ll be in my twenties with the deja-vu hamster ball aching aching ache (OLD FUCKING PICTURES)
Of nine weeks.

Nine lives left. CORRUPT ME, I’ll grow down.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Down.

Down.
Down.