Gutted
¶ 1
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Gutted.
Gutted.
Gutted.
Gutted.
Gutted.
Gutted.
¶ 2
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How do I feel?
As though I’ve descended into the gutter
then been swept down the drain
plunged into the sewers
slipped in slime
been kissed by rats –
and that’s just in my better moments.
All components
of poetic thought
implode to nought.
Much like
Chelsea’s season.
And the reason?
Drogba’s girly slap?
JT’s penno slip?
José leaving?
Frankie’s grieving?
Maybe it was me …
maybe there is no such thing
as a lucky shirt
maybe … possibly … probably … in fact, irrevocably
there is no end
to this hurt
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