Grace comes home
drunk sometimes
and beats on the doorway
to my guts
I fumble with the lock
’til a wound opens up
and she falls in,

‘Honey, I’m home’

I wince
as she stumbles up my spine
and leaves a trail
of bruises on my ribs
I choke on her
dancing on my tongue
as she kicks out a tooth

‘Honey, I’m home’

She lights a cigarette
inside my head
and blows all the smoke
into my eyes
until she sees a tear
and then she sighs

‘Just what I thought,
another fragile Buddha’


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Avant-garde pop mastermind... Davis is as unique and endearing a live act as exists in America today.

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