we value the salad role as combatants

& your beauty depends on a fluorescent bulb.

mawkish. my father drank tomato juice with pepper,

climbing straight from a shortlisted collection,

dripping liquid chunks. i speechbubble him ‘abracadabra’.

painting on the bildungsroman moustache as he gets her in

the end of all ends, maybe bus-stop fracas whir,

eggtimers, or you, aren’t, much, too look at gulls

might be informative & pop-gun leftovers

just reflect the defunct tv tray.

 

teddy rupert assays my dreams with upright force (gloating

you’ll see my astronomic curve (though the errors even in

books on poetics (nothing comes out of america), things

persist while the research into things is a new lemon

flavoured drink. help us make some cast-iron brackets.

the going fishing myth still get vouched for, swollen

into a mindset that turned erotic. 

 

.

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