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Pulp

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There’s a shard through my ankles
While I watch the seeds bedraggled in the floorboard.

The sills are sighing
their lids won’t stay shut.
My ventricles are sobbing
and the thistles won’t cut.

Touch lightly and peer into that shack,
find the small pair of shoes and meet the scientist.
Touch lightly and pierce those salty lips,
there lays the dead poet with licorice around his wrists.

There’s a piece of time on the table
and we share its plates.
Nibbling at its corners and breaking the silence with a three five chord.

Touch the tree tops
before sweeping the yard
with christened aches.
Holy wine glass,
father
Let me take a sip,
lord
I’ll hold hands with Lao Tzu and
we’ll skip through the furnaces of middle ground.

He will hold my palms up
and find no truth
just to find loneliness.
That empty flame.

Jump in with me, you dreamers of a mad generation
Spewing hypocrisies above the waves
Screaming through the hardened bows of lies and misdemeanors .

We feel the bottom
Watch as ours toes burn into the sediment.





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This article has 1 comment. Post your own now!

M said...
Nov. 24, 2008 at 5:36 am
the dreamer speaks to the world!
and the world listens!
 
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