Editing poetry: Lying in the kitchen is best left to mothers

When my head is lying on the floor [still]
I can hear the [white] noises
Coming through the ceiling
The thump of a refrigerator [dying]
And the white [black] shudder as it realises something terrible [mother]

The noises make me think of [a list] tiny red lights,
Small dead dogs in ditches fur matted
Songs that go all wrong
Fingers spliced open Leonard Cohen [nakedness is a song],
A cold wind and a blue bottle on the counter top [end]
Thin trickles of blood running down my arms
Veins on the outside[end].

via Editing poetry: Lying in the kitchen is best left to mothers.

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