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Monday, December 13, 2010

Tricky Kid

Tricky Kid

look deep into my mongrel eyes and hide your knife with folded hands and the processional propriety of the condemned will fold into a shrinking center.

the cost of dogma is no less than your entire spirit. some will be corpses, slightly rotten. others will be skeletons with nothing left to give. or mummies, refusing to give themselves over to the earth.

the poem begins as a killer. it ends as a dyer. clowns will rise as a force of nature as one man refusing to budge can collapse an entire system. freaks of distraction, a sorcerer faithful to an unspeakable craft.

the thirstless gather around my juggling flame and caress the light that bends about my shadows beginning as a lip calloused and popping bubbles of its own breath as a feather dreams of electric sleep. the lip is a scientist, an inverted masochist, sitting on an electric fence.

there are no sides worth taking. the fence is faithful to serene things that attempt to penetrate what it encircles. caesars don't fear the reaper. penetration is a doctor with a schizoid embolism, a vaso constricting vasospasm. battalions of the accursed are captained by a pallid manifold of dirigible dignitaries.

and we are left with us.

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