Wednesday, July 16, 2008

drawing out the lines of confusion
clearly stable writhing
with the clouds in my eyes
surgery and stapled throats
crying blood on the inside
undertones of unhappiness
porcelain fires have burned
me solid frozen waiting
dusk glistening across the shadows
travelling upwards and peering
loops and little digitals
stealing away the physical
number crunching space
and eternity making madness
lessened banks and free money
only worth the smell of dirt
freshly scented in chemistry
we were made for each other
but maybe four years down
the line it might come up
again and then the roads
will be wet and the trees will
have a million little silk worms
dangling down and sticking in
your hair, and the crows will
come out by the hundreds, and
we’ll photograph the absurdity.

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