another proffesional begger
the saxophone gathers up its dreams in match boxes
I could swear that I have memories only of you
flying our nights with sales hunting the presence
of a sure morning
an antropomorphic indian dance of pure dreams
inside one midnight
if we didn't know we could dream
would we dream?
[Jesus]:
Landslide put through my pace
landslide
has the grace
corpsalming me into
hollow corposants
incense to self-constriction
accelerating myself deadline
unperfection
ever so consanguine
reverse ampliation-
the contractile escape slid
the Code’s invisible ink
awaits me absorbtive
to implode amid.
The last tractile nadir-
veinal addiction
Blood, run out on me
form is a danger
a danger even dogs of my reason are afraid of
pain flows time flows you flow
thru me
but not the form
it sits there
numb and vile
like the concrete electrical pole
doomed in the old orchard
of my grandma
death
is so yellow
and no black
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