deepundergroundpoetry.com
A Variety Of Things: Diary Entree
slow.
There was a word there in
front, but NOW,
there clearly is not.
Don't mistake this soft,
and opaque cervix of a
town to be your walking
place.
Pressing your too crippled cane
into the moss dome.
Arches
that selectively inhabit the
maps of the meek and lonely.
Guiding outward.
A squeal shook your ear drums,
starved for air and bloated with
sewers and phlegm.
"I'M BETTER, I'M BETTER AT THIS
THAN YOU."
"Fuck" Rings out of you like a
hiccup.
And there, like a dream, your
large, white, cock-sized pills
collapse beneath your molars
and sleepily grind your throat
with "Mr Sandman, I'm so alone,
bring me somebody to call my
own."
There was a word there in
front, but NOW,
there clearly is not.
Don't mistake this soft,
and opaque cervix of a
town to be your walking
place.
Pressing your too crippled cane
into the moss dome.
Arches
that selectively inhabit the
maps of the meek and lonely.
Guiding outward.
A squeal shook your ear drums,
starved for air and bloated with
sewers and phlegm.
"I'M BETTER, I'M BETTER AT THIS
THAN YOU."
"Fuck" Rings out of you like a
hiccup.
And there, like a dream, your
large, white, cock-sized pills
collapse beneath your molars
and sleepily grind your throat
with "Mr Sandman, I'm so alone,
bring me somebody to call my
own."
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