#177
three poems
I’ve recently started writing poems again, which I attribute in part to the difficulty I am having trying to articulate or even acknowledge the Everything of the current moment. It’s nice to be back in a familiar saddle.
Thanks for reading.
Haut de cuisse Expensive language takes fated turn to hokum I’m in the snow bed with a rope - Just faces Actors on Actors spit into the same bowl icing each others gâteau look what they’ve done to your boy. yes, Talent, shot and replaced by thin premise in a hot house with no exits and roving frames - Act three The night sun is reserved for inconspicuous hunchbacks & golden lackeys. In the apocalyptic morning sanctimonious myths are sung high in memory of delicious America
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