hospice

Love is a shovel.
Tears are a drink
Pain is a pleasure
and jackets fend off the cold –
But the cold won’t kill you.

You just give up one day.
Lay down and don’t get up.
A full pain.
Heavy set comfort followed by the bliss of lightness.
The sweet smell of your own shit as you cark it.

Carcasses, warm, warbling wanting.
Pushing thoughts and informing meaning where there isn’t.
All applying, ascribing value where there isn’t any.
You are invalidated, wasted and unwell.
Cold, unjacketed and dying.

My love is a shovel.

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