Sunday, November 11, 2012

this way, quick

there's always going away, there's always that
when all else
sail away like a light bulb that went out
in someone's kitchen by the canal
while they slept
dreaming of the ripples that ate at the cracks
that appeared in the icing of the faces
which ate at the ice with such utter looks, look—

this tension of trying to preserve power and safety
it must be a disaster for the nerves
I suggest giving in to everything
then eating cake for some time

like moles, moving always on
blind if necessary


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