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A - Z
Man, woman, man;
Woman, man, woman.
Man, man, man;
Woman, woman woman.
Woman, man, woman;
Man, woman, man.
i have been working on poems that have very few words
Around, and around again.
Electric dance of the magnetic mind.
Silver thoughts police the undefined maroon center,
leaving the heel scuff on the face of the passion parade.
The silver glove is trapped in the ooze of the intestine swamp.
Holding its victim till suffocation points the way out.
Deeper then deep!
So the serpent moans,
Tortured by fermented visions.
He is wrenched from the depths;
From the bowels, the bunions,
of his sub-cortical animations.
Morbid, morbidly the incubus howls.
Bemoan the sweet panther.
yes animals! More animals!
8 = 8
= 8 =
for those who are interested in where this poem/construct is going The interesting thing about the number 8 is that it is a mirror image of itself. up down, left or right.& turn it on its side and it could be thought of as the sign for infinity .
Quivering thighs rescue the belching god-****** of the iron donkey.
Purpose intervenes in the convention of sea sponges.
Why am I victimized in the attack of the thought purple?
Didn't the pebble grinder get his fair share of words?
Did the queen turkey bite the shine of the cop-insect's buckle?
Or was it just the dawning of a new apocalypse?
Passed the prunes of my tarantula garden.
Boat orange and lemon splatter the legs of the beast.
Random attacks the sweet order of thought.
CERTAINLY DOCTOR HAVEN revisited
The computer slid into the darkness of my electric neglect, crying for pain in the snow-ropes of random.
Easily aching, the wax of rendered delusions
scrapes the blue wall of defeat.
Will the rug weave the willful drops of the marmalade captain?
Will the night dog bite the wrapper?
Heavenly hues of salamanders pretend to **** the jacket of Ohio.
Warping, wrenching, churning;
for the fruits of the tomato-whale linger purposefully past the tree green ***** of time.
Candy cane wires of memories leave them
for the froth of integrity.
Never again shall I wade past the silver needle.
Past its wretched peace.
Passed the purple.
Passed the green.
Past the charcoal clouds, mourning the death of the sun garden.
When the will-bird colors its eye
greener then the glass of tomorrow,
then the water will free the frog of peace.