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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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