more foil-buckets
in the bucket of hell
toe-
rings
and pilgrim thighs
the messy dance to the pill ration
then we sit on a shiny couch
with the remote
harvesting all the channels
what are you trying to be? a
fucking poem?
here’s the thing:
telephones
corners
&
blurry destinations
the fear aches in my stomach
down in the cafeteria
bones echo
empty
words
stick to paper
sometimes a nurse drifts by
[that
crushing submarine
war tide]
suspicious vermilion hair - only cloud marrow
I look at the drowsy in your eyes;
a mirror
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