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Sunday, August 5, 2012


I rummaged threw my back pack,
in between the cash & random maps
condoms & a half-smoked stash I had acquired at last nights bout with the "rear inn"
in the checker printed slab I found scribbled lines of poetry on some napkins-strewn
like bodies in an opium den after copious amounts of coitus,
"slip it in"
that's all they read.
like a shot to the head...the butterflies in my stomach suddenly dropped dead
reminiscent of a death row inmate being led to his bed
no more words were tred.
shot glasses clinked like marbles..and our napkins had rings worn threw
I've fallen into my Arnold Palmer's
Jacks helping hand...the whole gangs here...Johnnie
smoke billows slowly off the tip of every word
it rumbles thunderous jolts of repoor..over the horn strokes
ivory scorn.
lord knows she loves the danger inside of me.
pays dues.
no rent
but the space is used so its time well spent.
her soul brings out a better side of me.
squatting is such a retaliative term,in this here
the undernourished/lurid bushwa we don superb
loose visions keeps my emotions in line with my nerves
riding the waves of periodic fissures to my pineal gland
wishes granted in deplorable sin
every limb trembles,as these relentless sentences drop like thimbles
pistols dancing wildly to the sound of deafening arrogance
but such is the scheme of it.
my lover and I dance the moonlight awake.
she whispers:"As a sesquipedalian stylist, you throw words like 'eponymous" into a sentence without missing a beat"
this mere sentence got me in heat
I rose to my feet,in the mid morning sneak
took to the streets in proclamation that I had tasted DEFEAT
the sweet subtle nuisances
amongst the copses
but I yell"Brother,are we free!?"
as we wait at the red light he looks around and thinks
"I do believe so.."
then why must we wait for the green.

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