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this fiction of mine laboured tightly in the skull of memories and mysteries worked to the wheel by furies who deal the willing thread in...

Wednesday, May 29, 2013

waddle


being choiceless _it becomes a scream_
ego never has to thread the needle's eye
it gets pulled out from the bull pen
all the way to heaven _read crystal beach
with little fishes and apples
floating blues up in the muddy waters
humming with a couple o'fat girls
blown with beer and weed wading in the ready
sand quick to sink that crater lake
where you got down to wash the sun the moon
and assorted bodies only
to meet with restless sleep dawn and the front porch
marveled at the ash clouded sky
while car after car backed from endless driveways
parading for the barking dogs
in the gutter where you too rolled and rocked
in abandon serving any god handily
simply to end up in front park at the edge
staring at the rolling water
wanting it as you saw your eyes look back
and it hit you like kryptonite
thus you crashed back to the bench where you
were before linda whatchamacallit
sprung you from except your feet are now wet
likewise all your capital
and the eye in the triad's intent on you

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