Dressed in Prod

is time a robber with pitch-fork plodding his way through the garden
in search of the owner of the house with
shot-gun minds and movies containing them on his prodding palette, what
smell does an extension-tongue of this type remind us of a flush
of the cheek when it runs after a toilet non-easily understood decisions
after banana peals and all their disgust as reflection
of silicon in the shapes of grapefruit dangling for raspberry bats in the eyes of
museum-thieves, what glory webs its capricious designs over single-celled
volumes of library infested court rooms, broken
orders, crumbs for janitors, simple flecks of pieces twinkling in the cracks’
cemented shudder, if it
weren’t for the vultures, dizzy on the dead, we’d stand howling for the government

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