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Friday, June 5, 2015


With Point

yellow canary
purple prose
once walked
walked on the
richness of a
disarming dream.
old inertia - old delays
of clouds flowing backwards
into my brain
fanciful colors of lucidity
an art of trope
saints of murders
murders of the soul
a blunt shovel of words
lay there cool with you
and me
candor in my soul
like a dead bird
on a black street
vile but free
maybe i am
earth caught under
the quiet pound of your
plagued foot
or a voice that leaves a
visceral ache
covering lies
lies listless on a barren cot
stale and staring with
ten thousand eyes
veering through one
one masked vein
direct hunger of fresh meat
at best your flesh
flesh lost to a skeleton on
which your story is hung
a story which never really
seems real to me