Thursday, March 18, 2010

The New Poem 2: Dualism

We go equally under twin ladders

rung with gears and tinsel repose,

one of our days

has waned

after the river exhausts the last

of the gold dust

a scent of scribe discerns,

Buckle up your jacket

or care , oh! whack a molester migraine

riven with funnels

that could drain a swamp on the Devil's half acre,

because yes, you could squeeze into those

pants if I squinted long and Asian like,

but that would leave me blind

and searching for code

that would unzip

the back of the dress

every womanly guitarist

desires to wear,

My desire is

seat behind

the steel beam

in the nose bleed seats,

sending you messages

with an Etch a Sketch,

a maze of straight lines

and no joke

to finish the phone call with.

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