The Orphan

There I am—the reflection of ten frozen flies armed to the teeth.
Seven broken kites tied to the shadow of a Gypsy, blazing
A sooty crumb trail of thumbprints and fingernails
Through a field of crop dust & snow–towards a stockpile of dirt
Where the constable always catches me
Kissing the grubby lips of a toad, skipping my dead sister’s rope.

 
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*from* The CNTRL FALL[a]CY

It was as if he was being externa11y cntrld, led by the vatic leash by which he was being dragged, more or less, like the maimed animal of a cruel god; dragged through some Keatsian Proverb into that psychic aether to happily serve God... Continue →