Consistency wants:
the rice bowl down the chimney and a cinnamon sweep of total regards. A
crow and a sideways suicide.
No real word yet, my bitter friend.
No real
nothing
The servant keeps glass by the windowsill. A cared proverb
of fractured sensibilities. Health, inanimate. Trolls by the doge of the forge
of foreign spent.
You do not look so strange at speech.
Greatest hits of speeding black men on stilts. Let’s call it
a barren one.
Dedication to blue:
sand-sucked balls beaten (blue) and waxed.
Linkage of that that always falls asleep, fast.
We’re all blind by the clipped bird of our skin. A substance
that only requires us to moisturize, albeit frequently.
Now the last thing to do:
this body
waits
and is waiting for an answer.
