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Collision: Larynx crushed//            //Enter: Pantomimic reply

Kill. Queen. Green. Flag. Capture. King. Within.

A bull and the belle…a message for…

Unmask the luchadores. Show them for all that they are

Bric-a-brac. Banderillas first. In seconds, heart-ATTACK.

What may seem like forcing, isn’t even the crux of it.

This biscuits gone stale.  Pour another round for eachthemall

Horrible what they’ve done with your grammar.

Porous sieve you’ve become.  Drifting round with that afadavit sleeping sideways off your tongue.

Don’t sleep. Don’t sit up straight. Pretend. Dream. Just pretend it’s all a dream.  Stars, they shine. Big. Bright. Here. On this, impossibly broken narrow string that once was just a normal night.

LOUD: Tralalalalalalalalalalalalalla. Sings them all.

SOFT:  whisperslayuponthetonsilstill…[trails off] \\ for silencia’s sake.

INTERMEDIUM: For thou shalt not covet thy maker’s SUN.

THE poltergeist’s a sparrow.  The cardinal’s a fence.

CRETAN: “I’m truly saddened by your loss…{Extremely Edgy}

)you should see the other guy( as I lay here in my bed…only I know. And I can’t help but cry. “How do I tell Daedalus that his toreador is dead?”

 

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Is A Spark-Plug Too Timid To Ever Be Tamed?

Sorrow is felt for the unmasked and

desolate like the winter that clings to

the hope of a late summer

 

Where the thread strings bare, lines

expose divulged infinities—protracted

endowments of curious fruit and bloated

realms within fragile casings

 

Persistence of knowledge, and it’s diligently uniformed

regalia, concentrate upon details and facts alone—prorating

discipline, like a tenderized justification born of tedious decrees =

 

Correct posture. A beckoning of the invertebrate—to

slither strong—amongst shattered glass and upon leaves

bled bare by the new moon’s rain, all while eclipsing shade

 

Solstice bourgeons vermillion sequestered from the untethered scars of a forgotten sacrament—it has yet to taste the tonsil’s groan; it whispers amongst the coagulation—only to bathe in the light of dreams

 

A focus group will someday encounter a mind it can

not dissect—for the knife will refuse to desecrate such

beautiful craftsmanship.

 

End?