Big-footed bruiser, bringing brown hair
on heads to meet with the street,
shattering teeth; busting up busybodies
with orange open-faced cudgel
sandwiches; these meant to crack minds
with crystal edges...
And Jack and Joe take the flower out of
the pipe and burn further their lungs;
tasting blotter of the blue heavens;
giving sights to scenes of violence;
heady bickering and metaphysical
exchange for the "per-prose" of the
moments of intellectual money.
Joining these, my brethren, I feel of a
broken glass jar... tearing away flesh
the more it is fondled, dripping
raspberry-red blood down below to floors
crawling with leeches.
I hit my clock to feel the second of it.
Bend the chimes to hear harmony fail
once again...
For now I am slammed with Instant Zen.
[22:23|13.10.011] ©c.thomas.carter
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