Sunday, August 08, 2010


Paraded in vulva sweaters
two sour green cheek wearers
proceed through the faint pink
airliner doorway, treadmills stalled
breasts lashing electric light
burst slackened veins,
the mountain signing off
through a trainmouth.

We have a mechanically achieving
champion, wearing our tits with a rash
for the storms on fire
in disconnected lands.

Let the dust under sofa
cover your tongue, your backhole
languidly offering new.
We have a chin for the new wearers.
He will march with us into the solar system.
He will show tricks with which to scare idols.
His palms will observe a salt moment
white black grainy old photo tracking
the tracks of the tracks of the tracks
of those healing veins, licking one rectum shyly.

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