Monday, November 28, 2016

The king will be fucked to death.
His perimeter will give way
to black sunshine.

Potatoes whacked apart
like meek logs
broadcasting his nostrils
to the worm farm.

Reeds with trigger hearts
pricking pillows of dull sky
fire of stars above the rented cities.

Culmination of sea's froth
on the sainted upper lip
of a garden walking.

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