Balconies abound off of clouds
making sounds like Beethoven confounding the ears on the planks
while baby ears sprouting out of stairs
climb for the peaches,
would die for the screeches of thorns,
for the outer ordinary morns.

In storage for this trip,
it should be a blip on the screen;
but due to machines,
the archives will be casting
for some time for smelts.
The dealt with are too kind.
Can't we make it smell lovely as a bird?
gimme the word, mon, the turd.


 

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POETRYP||| MUSIC ||| INTERVIEWS ||| REVIEWS

1961 CHRYSLER ||| UPCOMING EVENTS ||| ART ||| WRITINGS

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