All washed-up, once more
again on shore,
against the old jagged rocks.
Running in and out again,
like the tide,
tossed out, far into.
Writing from my bed
of grey ashes, did I last
year, remember.
Tommorrow, 'yes tommorrow
I will see yours the doctor,
and after Monday.
My back hurts,
but that is just the small of it.
Why it hurts.
Again I ask 'are you drinking?
I know you are getting
exercised, while your bloody maries
celery and vitamins? '
Flatulation, each memory
of late last night.
Looking down the open window
I see green panties full of cuts.
The moon is propped up,
against my clean white pillow.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem