Poetry


Her head gashed open

Crimson blooms from a black hole

With peacock feathers

Riding his bike to

Work in the cold, he sees not

My voyeurism

Crash of train cars and

Blur of graffiti race to

Meet the yellow sun

Larry Flynt, you’re more

On your toes in a chair than

Most people standing

Tasers kill people

I think that makes them lethal

And not non-lethal

I believe there are

No coincidences, just

Synchronicity

I wish I spoke French

Sexy, lazy syllables

I guess I could learn

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