Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Pot


THEIR POOLS

Unbearably serene,
Their pools collect the absolute

In fortified gothic casinos
Lint free and buffed as desired

Unsettled as a vacuum,
My shrines are removed using long ropes

An exhausted tagline is hissing
From the inhibitor of sour lamps

Pigs everywhere, sterilizing scalpels,
Passing ironic gas and epitaphs

I depend upon them to blend my quiet detonation,
I pulverize
Tendrils of pulp toward ripe destinations

And the graves insert impacted antlers,
Shirtless and digging up for my nightmare
A vain butter flickering supreme vinegar 

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