Friday, November 28, 2008

Elision Sonnet


In the room of amputated limbs, I am one. No body is whole here. In getting back to beats, I think about who has been slain. All the brims, hats, assholes, disregarded lunches, and hairdos make me feel I’m the only one who knew how to **** ***.

The king wrestles with his conscience. Which king? Some king, somewhere in the world, must be wrestling, don’t you think? If not with his conscience then with his alligator, his infant son, or his guilty desires.

Who loves his job, must see through to an improving world. That’s me sometimes. You once told me food could be virtually free. Keeping in mind that we are ****, meet me for ***.

The extended remix of a life. Throwing faces off.

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