I see my mind
This fibrous clavichord
silhouetted by lavender
in fog of my own misgivings
I reach in and it is all nice
and then the clown puppet
dances on my solitary grave
Oh these decent tendrils
from which smokes
a hallowed venom
Then caught between the dice
it chews at the corners
and puts out a cat-like howl
Some smelt in the kitchen
stewed in non-juice
at the bus stop of last desires
and somehow, still...
I learn to lie in love's manure
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
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