Poem 55

weed bittered wind devils degrade the scenery

as we dine on wound down clock parts skyped from

inside the guts of the night we last felt light in our skins.

 

hell is made by people who want you to hurt for being yourself.

 

i just made a fridge magnet poem from the gravy boat sky,

it sucked as much it sounds like it should,

only good works are made by the righteous now,

and we dine on the clock parts which have

wound down from nights as bastard sized

as the eyes of a japanese monster trying to raze the crazed city mazes

that are navigated by touch, taste, sex and mutual affectation.

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