A POEM THAT SWELLS UP

Marta, I just don’t sufficiently explain the void
I know it is chilling to be
A piece of memory stuck to NYC
The hair fetishist guy feels like barking in English
Those guys from Paris turn into a midget
I wouldn’t be this torch or a squash or vegan shaman
mais je retourne a vacant queasy feeling
The older people are sparrows in the a cappella group
Please don’t have a morbid curiosity about the honk toy
or rustling gold tongues hung on the balcony to dry
You’ve probably been seen drawing exaggerated genitalia on the death of life.
I don’t really have to know your coded glom! Your grim lushes are there.
I found a more grotesque asthma I guess
I watched  a Hasidic man become a pen and notebook
I watched the sacredness of a Vogue magazine in 1972
I watched black drawstring bags with quickeyed love
I watched a second language environment with George Herbert
I watched a restive sleep
I watched a couple flarfing to lyrics – the hippies loving this
Maybe on the street yelling and crying
Saw Dorian Gray fishes and muzzles snatching with
green false eyelashes and gold paint, backchanneling fine print red mind
Got any waters of Lethe to use on those kids?
Those most amazing eel birds of reading anything?
This hair in a Spartan little commercial context
This hair in their place; my lap’s a commercial contest
This hair in my friends in the lack of F train
Is hair an extension of the quote you didn’t read?
Is hair an extension technology?
Buddha left his wife in the states I don’t care
Is hair an extension of forbidden things?
Is hair an undergrad i.e. not with enormous breasts.
Are you coming to be?
So…one should buy stuff
The honk toy, its thick sensuous lips
like grand temples on the rocky road to vibrancy
So much agape, and deep red velvet paintings
like exaggerated genitalia on the death of life
A voice in a cheap everywhere, pagodas of course
pagodas of everywhere, OMG OMG I learned from benzos
Was that yaki saba I just married? Cried softly…
Getting my own voice sounds like staging a jar
Pages 175 to 295 are a blue-colored butterfly gland
all night in my radical dollhouse
The nightmares of extermination you didn’t really need
I’m running around shtetls in babushkas
I’ve got kosher in my feet, cajole myself to kvetch
I turn into a midget with a great love of announcing things
Guess I’ll just give someone a lost yarmulke
against triteness, but don’t have a morbid curiosity about it
This torch I wouldn’t be
That seems unhealthy to the internet
The cats go to Spa Castle
Nemo’s thyroid tested because I ate it
The cats watch Gone with the Wind
and the problematic Teahouse of the Beasts Boy again
Nemo is seriously complicating the morning
Seriously I am I a poem that swells up
Spock is going to stay in my scream and would moan
I finally found my identity anymore
Waiting for the most important muscle pain
Even if we are line drawings
In bouffant silver wigs
I watched a coconut flake 
Writing an impassioned persuasive paragraph on rouge
but I do want to try and speak from another planet
Weaving in his garden Nada uses words
to sufficiently explain the many fevers
Hopefully it is fun to wake up
Anyone want to make fun to wake up
Woke up, watch out!
Sha SHIN, flash of light
Marta, I just don’t sufficiently explain the void
I know it is chilling to be.
Wait for the hortatory feeling

I’m serious, I’m going to emit us.

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