Snowball moon
yet quicker
the sun escapes
promises broken
write one hour
revise fifty
the sad fuck kitchen
four legs and a flat back
I just want to watch
come to the hall of desire
I’ll rustle up some grub
remind me to stab you
to have thoughts drift off
like friends dispatched
for success and curing
the supposed-to-be-sleeping gene
screams in the middle of the night
its bloody slaughter of the rest
at 440 rps the official pitch
for pianos I lay me down in
the snow’s glamour of hopelessness
the spiritual way a year burns
what shall it be this time
a litter of turnips or flowers?
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