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David Woodhead

he breathes with purpose


and reads the paper and listens to the radio and scratches his ears but still it persists and still he craves and still he wants to scream out his pain loud in the open air and stop the empty ache that fills his life and so he crams burgers and cold chips with ketchup and stale doughnuts into his saliva filled mouth and gulps down a long draught of coke until his light head fizzes and he feels so fat and ugly and old and greasy that he can hardly move as sleep pulls him ever downward into a place where torments are few and he wants to puke or piss or shit the bed and he wants to be repulsive because he cannot imagine anyone wanting to touch him ever again yet prays he will be held