Waking on the Couch Again

Waking on the couch again,
Head like a bike
With both its wheels buckled,
Piss hole eyes
And zip marks on my face.
Fresh from dreaming about bats,
Bug filled floors
And the songs of the cavemen,
I’ve got chest hairs like radars,
Feet searching for land
And a hand that’s long died.
Waking on the couch again,
A flat ball,
A stranger,
Another lost take
On the tranquillised gorilla,
Wasted with bad shapes,
Alive with my doubts,
Winter is coming,
It brews ‘round my nose.

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