With eyes beaten shut
she slinks through amniotic
fluid, with life in tow.
People one and all
fall by the weigh-side, versus
a sweet woozy high.
She’s unlike the rest,
that’s clear, with kempt hair and queen
killer eyes – when lucid -
but consistency’s
a past pastime, and night hits
are all she’ll accept.
Dumping thin slices
of processed meat like newspaper,
she floats through moonlight,
an exile, and moonbeams
slide around oily hair that she’ll
river-dip, tomorrow
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