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a poem by Ian Mullins

Dog Dirt

Right now I'd tear up
ten years
like old lottery tickets
fluttering in the air

anything to stop feeling
like a dog being kicked
again and again

I'd piss a decade
down the gutter
wouldn't bother me to walk
with a stick
you mess with me son
I'll take your head off

wouldn't bother me
to suck in breath like the last dregs
of a bad bottle of whiskey

just so long as I could
make it to the door
sit on a hard wooden chair
and smile at the broken faces
pasted like clown posters
on windscreens
as the rush hour limps by

then throw my watch in the dirt
and smash it
beneath my feet.

© by Ian Mullins
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #22 ~ July 2012