Eating Hand Grenades

Stomachs ache like hand grenades.
A withered & torn serenade
Leaves leafs beneath the feet.
Red,
Yellow,
Not green.
Wet sunshine baths the trees.
Wretched hearts mended,
Not torn,
Not bleeding,
But drunk,
And clean.
“That’s the smell of life motherfucker,”
Says she…

© Carlson 2013

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