Wednesday, December 24, 2014


I suppose it is possible that Jesus was born with hair
Both crown and lung evicting soft nothings
One dark and the other invisible
And gazing at the star gazing down
Everything so precarious one must blink

I would give him mine if he needed it
Because mine is cleaned for no one
And it spins like crazy soldiers in the sun
And it does not lie down to lions in defeat
And it is a frizz that witches can kiss
And they will not be made good
But rather wholly knowing

A king should have such strengths

As I return,
“I’ll Keep It With Mine” is playing
Not Dylan but Nico
And in her I hear
Mary singing across crag and tor
Imploring her lover to leave his heart with her
While he escapes into universes unknown
For she does not love him for what he is
But rather what he is not
A barbarian violently masturbating
The diatribes of ancient tribes

And the Conductor truly is weary
Since the beginning he has been stuck on the line

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