Taste for moon, shy tick in time:
I feel my life fast as a glass cover.
Her death sparkle, outgoing.
All the horse-strange horrors
that disturb light.
My rat thoughts make you the young man.
You are floor-clung after all,
a good companion.
I will speed an instrument.
Scissors lend a bitter taste.
I have eaten nothing.
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1 comment:
OK, so I have absolutely no idea what makes up a good poem (embarassing thing for an English Professor to admit, BTW), but I have to say, this is probably it! I'm never going to be able to look at all that penis spam I get the same ever again! :-)
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