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Feb 2017
So stomp like a hungover dinosaur,
do the Stalin shuffle over bodies
( in the singularpringular in this case, Josef)
- one impaled on a nailbed left on a shelf,
flatter than a swizz Schweppes,
or pressed flower some cuckolded colonel
relinquished on the Eurasian steppe.
For you tread on my dreams.
Or at least their autumnal smithereens,
crackling like a staticwauled chorus of Karma Chameleon,
now you tread on my red, gold & greens.

& any dark green shoots of maturity,
red & gold corolla of survival's beauty
protruding from the shooter turned inonme
(as if some flowerpower intercessor
lovemugged the buttonithole@endofthebarrel,
schmoozemissiled an armistice with the *******,
me-shaped gap where no magisteria overlap)
would be just another
humble hardwon
holding con, settingmeup
like an unassuming dawn the Day Of The Bomb.
Feeling all the more wretched
for that sweet breakfast of Frosties & water for one,
before a glimmerofhope nuclearbored me like the Bomb,
another home invasion of unrequited love  
discomboburaping me of the normalcy
of nice isolation & neat avoidance.

I have engaged private security firms
in my every Englishcountrygarden.
I've cemented broken glass atop the rainbow.
If there is even the remotest chance I might fall in love with you,
get lost.
Lysander 'Lice' Hardy-Pearce
Written by
Lysander 'Lice' Hardy-Pearce  42/M/East Anglia, England
(42/M/East Anglia, England)   
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