Monday, July 30, 2012


On having stomped down hard
into the magical flashing circuit
all he or she would say was


and wump wump
and wump again

and we chide the clouds
their prostitutes
and clods of ice
ridden by children down

and laying out the pillows
in a circle
its strange aluminum feather

cutting into the mist
where dogs and rainbows chattering
splash and reflect off of
the magnificent cups

of bream
and happy ending

them pimps kissed in cinders
where lace tents languor
to the sign:

no neeg fash paontsin!

(wump, wump, am wump, again..)

in a puny punishment
its poem rendered: /on/

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