there's nothing to it, watch
the iron plates of the skull in spasm
a core-sample from the inner ear, the sinus
a straight line curling into the forest pathways
choked again with drifts of leaves
at this point further penetration
is unlikely/the party retreats through
swamp and density in excited disarray
sucking in arrows from the shades
carrying out their last malarial god
on his shield
to deliver back unto his immovable parent state
all down the banks
hares dancing unseen
beneath the rocking bells
it's almost some kind of Christmas
if you're fucked enough
to love it
.
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