if the floors could talk they would admonish you
can you see the sounds? that's cosmic inflation,
wrecked be the norm as tracks wax poetic,
heat rises.
bodies tumble in sardine tins,
its pathetic.
(sure, thing could be worse)
i heard you talking some what not, nonsense, hell no,
bending ears, pulling legs and saying in jest. you could be erased.
this is space and time suspended, its own circus, welcome.
a three-ringed rectangle, fourth world condition,
an mta disease
1 comment:
a rat done bit my sister nell
with whitey on the moon
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