Thursday, April 11, 2019

Veil of flesh slapped up against the galactic slab
crumbling flour of stars
punk hills imprinted upon this cheeky dough
long leaning highway trees of the hair road
bronze tears of dynamited rocks
the bright sex lubricant of decaying fortunes
desk chair cut by flanks that have bitten
imaginary lunar air
big waterfalls of singing plastic
and a ring of black doves
churning with wooden superman
fork of solitudes pouring bread
wet page of days on the prison's grated floor
souls twitching on a crimped electric wig
my nest of hourglasses
and hardwired grass.

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