The zipper spilled a watery nun on the ground.
Her presence demanded steps of inspiration,
groans towards the heavenly helicopters,
and for the father to relieve the fevers, the chills,
but she evaporated and left winter turf,
so he clenched his hand and demanded milk, spat it out,
and sobbed where her liquid bosom had lain.
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The screens shouted and the opportunity beckoned me to remember her gaze.
A search party had been called, the helicopters have been roaring
The roman chronicles are blazing and my love cries.
Oh dumb me, libraries are only good for a shower and a book.
Along the smouldering rice pyres
Within ear shot of dancing mynas
And between the sequential whitewash gravestones
Were ceaseless chalky reminders
Of how far it would be until our travails were ending
Our eight spoked wheels no longer to turn
When we would collapse as if we were asleep
Two lit British soldiers were high upon the wall
Side reflected in the the mirror and the harping was nothing at all
If only they could dance on the bald suit it would be a ball
But the bartender needed to serve a blackberry and decimated the dream.
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this was the music that i labored over
as i felt the substance with my fingers
and sculpted the bust from pure white clays
i was startled by some shouting and my knife slipped
but i painstakingly recreated the mangled orb
i knew not how to construct a comb over
so fashioned a funny french hat instead
it was as if a boulder crushed me and rolled down the hill
but i had finished and the bust was displayed in a gallery near the earthroom
several years later vladimir putin saw me at a cocktail party and informed me, “you did a great job with my eyes”