I’d a God who translated my gibberish
For rented fans who wrapped it over rank fish.
Black my paper and black my heart gurgling fast
Below hollow head imploding at last.
Dungeons of foul octopi in scattered swaths
Suction my stale, caked-on Visigoth
Half-price Hallowe’en get-up as I croon
For a non-existent Love under black noon.
Foraging for fossils under the sump pump,
I revolt even myself. Fist pumped, load dumped
In dribbles of pink back-up, wasting the seed,
Turning to Phyllis Pillar. I looked back in deed.
Friday, December 12, 2008
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