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Burnt Tongue

avoidance at best, offering a hand, he doesn't care about a thing they say

it is a sordid parlay, mind earasuring portrait of a dove wing, featherlings

weight of the worlds passing-by, it is all the times you don't that matter and

never the times you do, it is what you meant to say or it is what you mean

when you say it, and still I find it too true, too true, all blessing accursed all

never truly have I known, what it is to care about a thing that I couldn't do

a thing about, what it is to do nothing but stare when on a walkabout, mind -

full of the maze, emptiness, for days, shouldn't stay home and can't play

with children, couldn't mask the face, nor, keep myself from picking up the cat

flexes like an acrobat, chained to the fence post, this is what is called, digging

up a hole, or twas' it down and out through & through the other side to where

each in degrees of angling the cheek, splintered never spliced, face to feet

in the grass of life, five minutes for three hours, centered around about ways

circling epiphanies of dust written names the same to find out what it means

I still couldn't really tell you what it means, nor, wherefore art it shall be found

couldn't mask the painting yet couldst paint the clown, upside down, in and out

everlong the dreams go on, and everyday the same, every night the mystery

writing left in flames, which one, both, how to, croak, swimming in the moat

twas' in circles it was dug, yet it is filled one by one each bucket, all of them, holes

it is just a'welcome home, what more couldst one ask for but a dinner and a show

what more dost thou expect then to be one more step away one more dalliance

of the hideous discoveries, and the question then, why is it you ask, find it funny

never have to hold for long, never had to go for gone, never once to be forgot

nevermore and neverless than God, rest it on my headstone, thy most wicked

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