Wednesday, January 7, 2009

a tide of static rests over the bay,
the mines hack back to their swollen cough,
lastly firstly, sewage from a shit-bottomed
catatonic. Sitting near a park shaped garage,
she swung seventeen sixes and paralleled a
golden ratio, I dropped the dice onto another
in a freakish haphazard neo-tight. Betting for
a longer finish than a quick beginning,
there’s practicing to be done, cleaning,
swept corners and sucking the dust
through a well-boiled hoof with hints
of hair left to be found, tinted black
midnight morning moon lust, and
the eye of mine deserves a second
beginning, as the rest duals a clear
day ritual, I’m seeing like a five
time retarded sucker, born again
for the first time with all the
faculties of a man with half
a brain, three arms, and a lemon
for an ass.

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