2006-03-24 - 12:23 p.m.
each syllable was a sad bull
affecting the armaments pronto
I kicked that gypsy in its song
licking copies for a bright death
pool production myelin took
to slowly chew forest roots soft
one eye on the swallow
losing balance of you in
this constant drink to
transfer the unbroken orgasm
a raise for the birds
by bus stop she waits
without the right id's.
Under circus of the Sun
blood is gently squeezed
from the banal, the way
wind shakes leaves from trees
She has no pith
here on the outskirts
the Honey of a low wage sage
opinions turn silver and rot
the young homeless, lacking history
astonish toads to die
