August 11, 2009, by Homme De Sept-Iles
am i slouched in a chair-shaped melancholy?
maybe.
i'm busy, though
and that's not a boast
(Busy: A trophy word for the frantic)
i'm pointing hawks at the stars
i'm whorling dust on a hemlock-filled barrel
i'm a child in another man
i'm on a grand powdered throne of skeletal nowhere,
a jaw unhinged.
mighty diamonds are red fists,
country squashers
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