“poets writing in code, nothing seems as normal as ”
if there's a question in it we'll see

once broken

We’ll keep at this or we won’t, so …

whoever is president this final precedent will serve breakfast to losers so secretly fond of bacon what’s more normal than that

violent men and women each in his or her own way fail to note the wave of light across the tops of barren trees

they are not happy at breakfast or in the craggy arches of a rotting book not happy with the definite object of their ambition

their violence explained by nothing but the exceptional heat of their kitchens cans of stiflings pots of oppressions nobody lets the dog out

a sumptuous past for breakfast please join us for a dazzling life a maze of metaphors a complicated dream about blood

when love sits down we get a rough urge to shift our knowledge around his pseudo-violent thus interesting request for infinite dawn

now the mucked up cups and bowls the plates of breakfast flatware scatter in cold light charge us to clear our throats put on our coats


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