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Fallation Brass Axe

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In 1997, I was apparently a surrealist poet.

fallation brass axe shitake falling away into and running with the entire concept of the boy finally reaching sweet sixteen blowing oh so sweet woo woo cat melodies into the center of my head thick pressed paws thump beat honk of geese in the small floating room below the exit sign before the moving leaves and the red light the red burning eye. the. the. the. he bought me a drink but i was afraid to drink it, there might be something in it, might be something else but the boyman drinks from the brown glass condensed hoping. hopping. jiving grooving saying its me i am doing i do not i try not. i do not. buzz buzz. the strain and staring into the mirror for five under stalin red budsign loo loo skip to the loo loo loo skip to the loo my darling and the window to the soul the man with the cruel face the cruelty hidden hidden and the slash across the face, that which i knew before but without the beard even more cruel like sneer and dogs jowls rabid slather pores wide fixed and moving, eye/eyes/eye/eyes dark cruel sanitary tp tp wiping the water wiping the water mine eyes mine eyes leaking leaking -- watering. bad choice... all choices. exhilarated glide on wings to nest here dishrag making pruned paws clean pieces steel glass gyrating oregano, basil, hemlock.

©1997 chris abraham