that new orleans tap water was the last thing for it
bit cold and dead rotten when it hit my vein.
she had a nickname, it was all i got from her
and through two broken condoms we made decent friends.
her left arm was useless, her face was real pretty
and we both got the shakes while we waited for Red.
i'm generally sleeping or dead on my feet
and i can't shake the tombstones from in front of my eyes.
the half-baked and the half-deads walk circles around us
and i woke up sick again between two clammy thighs.
that cold tourniquet pinched me, her eyes were forgiving.
i took off my belt, it was warm from my skin.
we wandered up Broad street, bought three books of matches,
we suffered in silence and went back down again.
her old man was traveling, might be back by morning
but we were blood brothers -the bent and the slain.
no god could forgive us, no meal could sustain us.
i only ask for a drip to untie my head.
and we wake into this and we waste into this
and we're born into this when we wake.
and we shake and we twist and we break into bliss
and we're thrown into circles of sin.
written by joey carbo (c) 2014 (r)
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