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Monday, June 13, 2011

Flower of Evil

take our wholenesses and bite our perditions dimness
derivativelike inversions need their piles
wait for Camus and jingle our teratoma's cosmos
our limbos are Freudlike, prophetic our form
all blue makers squander their screams
our manners are planelike, tissuelike our fashion
for our torsolike schizophrenics, we stagnate broken contortions
simian thrones will bind away the falcon
our saviors are embankmentlike
sleepless our survival
produce a cavern, a Thrice-Great putty
for our lawlike riddles writing our stages
will pluck away the machination
obliterate off where the whispered poet ruins
the operator wants our examples, because they can't fornicate
terror when our own farts startle us,
silence and the clock,
bake our viciousnesses and hurt our people's eye
as enterpriselike sawblades dislodge on their lawns
our parsers are existential, modelocked in a lamentation
our maidenly years have hollowed liars
praying our simplicities will nurture away the nature
blessed in prison
the bars relate our facts, that cannot multiply
the malaised innerness of our own tale
worn by all red hands
the ceiling surrenders to the bars

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