Monday, November 15, 2010

We Bury Our Imperfections In the Shadows

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Circe 425

You come aboard, man
metaphysical in creation
senseless, I,
a greaser of language so much so
that I have become unfaithful, stubborn
left with no tongue
simply growling time
to the shrewd light of love
but we are bitten anyway
left on a railway
mounting a white world
squaring up the edges
flourishing gestures

so what?

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