A coat of petty words, so finely groomed and worn,
against the thick november fog, walking the road torn
tentatively by forgotten anniversaries and tartar sauce.

My god, Bourbon, you're a fine-toothed, shark-toothed comb
circling down the drain, a yellow submersible
of pureblood grain
Burning in an engine with two gears; vanilla and plain. Reheated pain,

Cacaphonous ringing in my head, ...

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