Sunday, June 24, 2012


one of the rugs holds my haze, not yours
ragged and dense and high and flat and splayed,
anchored to the floor by a near-dead dog's
longballs bobbing in the room below

unsaid shoe beheading on
a different lawn, in the time it took
to die into a cusp

our community is taking away less
and less, lets the sewer age into its own filets;
socially incorporeal in the same particle
is the most squid for a jumpsuit
there's an odd little fire on the mines,
tungsten in terms of closet air
pelvic in its incorporation of a street;
I like that I sign luridly before glancing by,
I wanna try a council block irreversible in the nose

if runny fails, dumb will handle the pressure
the motion simultaneously stops the unidentified
object bouncing on the bed,
until about the point at which, later in the episode,
sort of mixing with it, the ceiling grants us
the full ebay version of a context

we're generally, after every episode,
' - did which of the perpetual motion machines
this time slip in bird shit?'

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