FROM NEXT WEEK'S LONELY HEARTS
The wind slips, birds shift and fart, stars can or do prick
or smooth your tongue, a day is pushed over faraway tarmacs,
and the sockets from out which still hesitantly
e.g. you can see a chunk of this blow-out,
they won't like crepe screw up and easily burn.
What instead you feel ought to occur, that will
probably float in your hope for a few weeks,
gastro swerve impending or any third-hand prescient
reversion to way back when or alternately, wow cocaine
better suffice and stuff it on the day tab. Daylight
is clinging where coherent now to whichever
unhindered truck which zips past it may, you take pathos
for a song, well, the banister is pretty neatly lacerated,
someone's in a bad mood, it is not the American
spirit in the dazzled azure or sorrow, that pays in the end.
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