vision of the end
a wreckage of kitsch, and a fragile paper boat
swirling past us
a babbling creak of vodka, full of Swedish Fish
sugary bloodstains on my shoes, and in the back yard
another day to get it clean
what a catch, made for trophy
the main problems have been negated
because wrought iron men never bend
lying feels so good, when you're beloved
like elbow length velvet gloves
the sky is pulling back
a zipper made of stars, and bone-china
is blinding white
the fear is palpable and pulsing like a radiation migraine
the holes we cut for our eyes
are sometimes back-lit
sometimes gone
the suburbs and the city
the front porch and the balcony
i could be yawning, or i could be snarling
but my facial expression makes no impact
on any Yankee conscience.
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