Tomorrow, Scythe Circus.
he’s just a cog. outside with the dogs. ballet dancing in clogs. on a rotted out log. in the beating pulp of a bog, and...he hasn’t a clue his horse became glue. that he used on his shoe. what was he to do? inconsequential, inconsequential.....so he ran away to join the sonora carnival. where he hoped to find a fist or an armful of hope.....he’s still a pawn. a waste before dawn. a needle and arm. presentiment gone. now bastille lights on .....under the big top, awake and euphorically sane. on the tightrope walk he would try for his savior again. now in wardrobe change counteragents spill into his chest. severance package plain, this trip has dealt a quietus.
Fog (Never Felt Better)
fog. don’t know how i lived without you. i can’t see (across the street) through this ghostly opaque gloom......little old men crawl on misshaped rock. eyes like world war, hands in their socks. changing their clothes everytime they eat. rings on their fingers they exchange for meed. treatments, treatments, high and low. feeling around for a fresh set of warm bones......fog, you have my arms.
On Prison River for the Life of Her Brother (abridged)
outside the water is a cell for thieves in little log boats. oh how they cry when i set a fire to reeds and river dogs coats.....long sigh of morning air in a town called hammerpot. i recieved her letter, a beckoning call from the north country. but i was followed by her brother who had it in for me. i was confronted and i stood my ground against my adversary.....and now i’m outside where the water is a cell for a killer in a little log boat. oh how i cry as i slowly die amongst reeds and river dog groans...
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