half mute and desireless
your quiet skin
lays out long on plywood worn
jinxed but for purpose
grab life by the throat
and it sings like
lyrebird
in the morning
roll the saxophones
coleporterstringarrangements
and dulcet tones
faint pulses
and fades into fuzz
crackling through
old radios
just containers
for passion
and disease
what makes us want
to make sense
of din or
death's ease?
to have only one song?
to have them all be so long?
Its just a trap
chew your own foot off
run for the hills
shake off the scent
(unfinished)
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