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My hands have the sharpest sight
Watching the orhids take flight.
A gazelle falls to her knees;
Begs the Great Serpent to pay her fees.
Abrasive taste of toxic waste.
Make haste through the paste.
The clerics make thei mountains
And sing of spring.

Silver twigs shatter the sky,
And the Old Man is rather shy.
Along the beach, a lemon tree grows.
Why it's there, no one knows.
Out on the plain, they writhe in pain.
It feels the same, this tired game.
Disciples pray to the shadows
And weep for the dawn.

The coins in my purse
Make the dog's cough worse.
And every single cell
Feels just like hell.
The peacock laid a cubed egg,
The with forbade nightshade.

The Wayfarer's soul
Is now a hole
Dug by a mole
With a painted shoal
And a coat of coal
In a vibrant knoll
Void of control
And sense of goal.
I've been reading Lorca. You should, too.
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Submitted on
March 17, 2008
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