Untitled 271

In the cemetery
trapped sin and simplicity
tinged with regret.

Under beds,
bruised bits of life.

I have called the wind
on my trite telephone
to speak with my lover in
the vintage language of distance.

The comic book store has
Only tragic books left.

One hero is asphyxiating for fun.
Another scrubs dishes in rum.

Beasts –
blue built and bundled,
and bridled brides.
Brutes weaving wispy webs.

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