Tuesday, December 16

Just a chorus cliche

Just a chorus cliche
with spice and phoenix,
ampersands and cashews
in a tin to my left for the man
on my right.

Useless news for sour goes:
Dad, pleased to meet you.
I know you know, but
wipe your eyes.

and we’re
drunk on high
about an hour I think.
Practicing black light shadows
he says slowly
"I love her and it scares me."

Lamb’s lungs swing
notes in iambic meteors
but he shows me
axioms on her body, across her arms.

A year or two
of temporary and (but mild) recurring depression of
what is me?
A good time to move on, I think.

Yelling through lines and clicks
conscientious, self conscious
stream of consciousness.

I got three dogs fuck.
No such thing as a double hallucination,
just throwing that out there,
he thought,
recording his voice through
his mind.

Think of something major:
You cant show me sound, he thought.
Yes I can.

Drink from the earth
what the water can't give,
but refuse willingly.
Let's go to the atmosphere
knowingly going
into danger
but let's smirk with hidden tears
and step into infinity.

Good bye, maybe I'll tell
you the story.

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