husband settled for pointing his nose
into the kitchen cabinent out fell cardamom
mother's earwax little bottles of olive juice.
in habitual bedroom boredom shoves lonely
hands between thighs. other girls breathe
the night.
slips note under the door an eclipse of
logic wife says honey you can't deduct
seventy-two viruses from one romantic
gondola. his future is getting greener.
here in factory-line countryside
husband lays railroad tracks or whomever he wants
two cheers, jump over your suburb's fences
you can leave them haunted nothings.















Comments
fuck. why aren't you in new york?
I know a few people here, anyway/
and I have no fucknig bicycle.
you're a genius, you know that, right?
children of messy divorces are more likely to write bad poetry.
usually it's right
but i've found many an exception
--
Automatons gather all the pieces so the world may be increased
In simulation jubilation for the builders of the body of the beast
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