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Terror Fabulous
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Doseone
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John Wolf, You are no Robin. And, of recent events, certain things have come to light. The way I played buoy in the dark bag for my belongings And, for the dark bag shines. A modest proposal on bones elapsing toward a running mirror's open mouth Or at the swallowed black version of a hotel room bent inside the off-trap of its bowed-out TV screen. The bag allows, animates again, and extracts its silvered still. This time, it's a kicked-over cactus Full with raven's eggs, dried bees, and a cherry on top Backed by grey sky and ball pits stretching off in to the distance. It has become dead-cat-clear: I strap no gat to bring the sun back, Casting hats with all my heart at gravity. Why, it's become muscle-cat-clear: A staunch near to the knuckle. Today, I caught the mirror stalling. It cast me with a blur face Like that of suspects being led in custody to questioning. Will you constantly ring a small gold bell with the pulled blade of a teaspoon for the rest of your life? Even from the pretty pith of your turned-around eye, I think one ear's gone rot And the other's clogged with your spilled seed and lucid marrow in a crust. Caught, On occasion, Cold-eyed Selling discs to the squares. Put out in mirror only While the trees ring.
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