last lines, i exited-- you too, the mirror's comely locks--
serene, jasmine fragrant vagrant, the names of unborn children
echoing in your fleshly round halls and walks.
no man can forgive himself for
saying so much--
in the night time he names himself
for the cheapest of his hopes, toasted, buttered,
and wasted, scrapped like bad cable,
must not see tv at
its very finest.
No comments:
Post a Comment