smelly Chanel

wispy lips,

chattery cheeks,

misty weeks,

but scents that leak

unlimited Chanel,

around the shell

of a school

that revolves as well

amongst the kid

who reeks.

He deserved it more,

albeit sleep,

all the fucking time,

please greet,

my bloody smile:

the great Chanel,

a smell to sweep,

his disgusting sweet

and sour lines

which made him smell,

of knifes and swines:

in his saint cashmere,

a cardigan too thin,

which couldn’t hold within,

his bleeding wine,

that held the spell,

now left behind,

in his box shell,

a home too well

known to him,

and all the while,

he still runs miles,

kicking a ball,

falling down his shawl:

sweat and tears

similar to the liquor and beer

washing down his throat

as he shouts

their names

who dresses in Chanel

who he knows too well

but doesn’t.

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