Only a machine would think this way
involuntary tics and tactile toes
the grind of journalists at play
recounting fingers bitten raw
by common law
and garish Edgar Allan Prose.

Only in a dream could I be sure
of palliative care between duets
a school of platitudes to cure
without descending into farce
I wipe my arse
and flush the sea of silhouettes.

12/29/2014

Posted on 12/29/2014
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