I am lucid for islands
in a row, the pungent
refraction of sunny
nodules in the sheathes
brings a glowing
nostalgic parmesan.
Opaque holes clamor
for depth-defying
pestilence. Forward,
bliss, crisis, and the
pinwheel's ineptitude.
Fallen upon a kitschy
spark, the present,
and my shredded
pancreas sits in tubes.
1.11
s.d.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
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