the tribal
vagina of Mr Willis
face
painting the space
between
my inhale of desire
and
the exhale of my virtue
I
get under every portico
every
rough hewn timber lean
depletion
is an end game
for
a hand-cupped certainty
though
passing the buck is king
it
is only a wearing of the horns
without
the responsibility
for
my animal nature
I
am mankind on a leash
wading
thunder swells
for
keys in the lightning
I
am a neuromantic romance
with
a façade of flesh
television
gnaws at me
for swimming in the alpha waves
my
soul’s weather makes
my
enslavement is only selected
from
what I am willing
to
be fitted with
in
order to keep spilling
my
back to Heaven in the reeds
as
mud carpets collect every time
I
pretend not to know
that
wings aren’t needed to fly
rain
on the aluminum screen frame
patters
out some arcane
morse-coded
chaos
and
all the messages
are
in a pour
my
belly full of bell jars
weighted
with being
what
humanity spawns
EJR
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