I’m tired.

The fatigue smirks as a plum deer,
heaving manic slush on the road to
drainage.

Cerebral votive slimes the head of strongness:
pale fatigue, lapidary usual stumbling unctuous fatigue.

Bye bye to the energies of small wild pigs —
habanero pigs — sick rustic pigs hogtied
in layers of golden foil, all lacquered up
with sick mourning and vapid mimicry.

Tiny and moot as a marabou fetus —
the electronic handclap of blatant fatigue.
Cells with no reason, gasping like red animals
bloating and breathing on a caustic shore.

Too zaaa—————- to zaaa—————
again and again the narwhale expectations.
The narwhale expectations, the G train, the sneakers
without lights, the sly feeler-uppers, the even bigger
under-downers.

Again and again the sleepy manatee’s grim fatigue,
the fatigue of ages and chronic misapprehension.

The palimpsests unpeel to show the cruddy hard lucks
of waned attention, swarming with the golden flies
of fleecy pudding, angry and helpless as suet
in the fatigues of undone antipodes.

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