Modernism

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Oragami dreams fold into blue-lined
wings and float on the surface where talons sting,beaks drooling after juicy chunks of arm and bone
that grab for the microphone:
to signal language across the global tone, congregating
gyrating, frantic wild fragments of withered crone shake the telephone,
whose blind ear is aphixitaiting papermache careers.
Stanger and stranger
this rabbit hole spells danger with anger bouncing on the knee of Fatherly heavens, his sobbing hands tied or tangled in bible-shackle-lessons.Pick a station below:
any song you know,
play it like you play with rope:
jump between snapping guitar groans,
forget about the dial tone
crushing civil sessions inside a six deep throne. I'm talking about possesive oppressive obbsession-
the apple pie of citizens in question- their words a la mode,
thier super-hero code deleted from the honey stuck road of apsiring society. Now piety dies quietly in the darkened corner of reality,
grey fingers reaching for the beggars bowl- his clothes coverd
in mold as those dreams unfold and flutter under broken exhalations of selfcontrol.
Expectations: beneath shiny shoe and tie, with blood-shot goodbyes and spots before his eyes.





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