(for & after ange mlinko (but there’s reason to it))

a splosh of wills stirring the day into fractures,
when you could be ‘tripping light’, um, the clouds are

always while pedestrians hover brightly
avuncular in intent like spider-moneys

with no cutesy wiggles or adjuncts
to the idea of investing in death.

a plagiarised parting of the crowd &
aren’t you smacking body-parts today,

like preened stray poems written on pigeons.
getting aroused by glossy images, not gestures,

else ‘sticking to the application of complacency
the looking glass interprets some direction in it

blogging life’s hurried sketches
with impression, with dumb o-shaped lips’.

a form is a loving recipient to keep around
igniting in the swell of your signature.

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