Tuesday, February 18, 2014


The moon is a sash on the hearth of a dead map
The sun blazes under a cemetery
Out in the world of jobs and harnesses they bottle reason
I'm hanging from a ceiling's corner in a sling of catgut
The mirrors won't leave me alone or float
An imaginary uncle shares my face for years
I forgot how to get up unfold and make lunch
I cringed in a chair of dust
Imaginary governments kept an eye on the less interesting
The orifice of bright and dark multiplies in celestial gaps
No newspaper of the future shows the faces of my telephone's grandchildren
Tiny prophets scream pop in the fireplace
I am undiminished by history
My future's with unanalytical manwomanman
Don't touch the brick's glow until it blips its replicas into existence
Or melt into sex information on my doorstep
We are waiting in the nuclear ballpark
For intergalactic teams to fumble points against a gel bulletin
For the gods of meteorology to finish their cones

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