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By: Mathew Nicolson

Page 1, I did *try* to write something positive, but it slipped slightly.

There's a restless, screaming anguish in the soul

That hammers to a regular rhythm on the cuffs

A message stuck in a constant repetition

Wash clean the grime from your dirty bluffs

Which are pennies down the drain

The body curls and scabs in pain

The skin grated by stabbing shame

Flaking over a rusty sheet

That does not reach raw feet

 A baldness encased in fur

And bloodbags past their date

A bloating to stretch like taffy

Shredding like abandoned splinters

Compressed into an unearthly state

Lines form on crusty entrails

Disembodied organs play musical chairs

Around the spine's chopping board

The persistent groping for an off-switch

Becomes the agonisingly regular itch

To plague the gored

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