spider like creatures.
couch potato salad fingers
melting below the mine
and insipid chime of the
sock that flits afoot and
spits a cigarette butt when
perishables freshen like stiff breeze
in winter soup and seismic epicurean
melodies play down my throat for ever
and evening falls and stands like a welly
on my face, juxtaposing with sneakers
running me down to the level to which
I've grown accustomed and when I
succumb I will come again to strum
like zen on the harp that is shaking
in the early tinctures of timorous
immersive beings. I crap size in
the lake of hope and dribble my
paeans to hope and worm thru
mud to the nearest barstool and
spill invective onto the pavement
and go home and leave home and
break the art of routine into small
parcels lined up on a platform waiting
to be taken heftily to the end of the line.
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