in moccasins made to vacation-fuck
your eyes in the noise of their own blood
sewing their wild mess of liver tire to the road
as metropolitan nothingness holds him like an owl
Wikipedia-bottomed bleak, Baron Frankenstein disappears secretly
beneath the balls of boobs' Norse moon, eclipse of the screen's
disembodied patchwork, sexy harm's attentively paranormal face
illuminated on organ trade reality shows -
the shit of deadly daytime bypassed joy:
in a parallel violence, exposure to its insane miracle drifts
gentrified whales outta zoos like charred cars
creating shelves in the deep walls crab-wise
hands fanning pics that foamed immortality
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