Poem #75

broke, broomed, never fighted one such as i,
pitiful attempt at small world domination,
foreign legion funny men in desert khaki cargo pants have et up all the sphinxen riddle salad.
almost nothing left to believe in.

peacock on a piano, middle c, vitamin free, flea motherfucker, flee.
i adorned the life you gave me in thick woolen socks, i will never get cold feet again.

horse tranqs will subdue the fearful if the fearful become too fueled by fading father figures.
tripod is my favorite boner joke.

a yellow tape, black numbers, coiled on a blue desk.
this is the way we measure success in the art biz.
how big is your etching image area?
too much margin, not enough picture planes.
weakened by the news of oblivion, i decide on a forest stroll.

and in the forest a nicely done suit, a sandwich of comings and goings, a cold stout, a treed ceiling, a clear view into space, closing remarks,
frothy stout, i drink it down.


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