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by Ernst Coobellow Printer Friendly

Can you remind that there is leftover beauty, the maniacs or 1% are perhaps just blind?

My memory gets so slow.

I'm foetid,

and at times incomparable.

Loathsome with longing,

and strung on the bits and the incontents.

When I think of time,

the flesh melts right off my bones....

maggots, black birds, and the feeding hunger are my little angels.

Though, I'll tell you,

as fast as life is,

death is a slow umbrella in

the spin cycle, washing machine rain.

you're slipped notes in the periphery:

"the oranges are bad."

"don't eat the meatloaf."

"tomorrow is gonna lay out like a coiled snake."

"your mind is as solid as unassuming pudding."

"let the dogs/childeren run wild and shed skinny dreams tomorrow."

"It's the unbecoming that already began the naked undressing"

"what does that mean?"

"Sometimes you have to trust in movement and

the uneyeballed."

"Have your taken your blinders off today

and spot rubbed your spectacles?"

"Are you as big as a leaf of grass?"

"I'm hungry."


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