AT THE MUSARIUM
[501 - 600]
I’ve blood red view
late, clear daughter,
beyond happy purpose
or further knowledge—
neither mine nor none.
Living comes & desire
makes real. Suppose
position, sound, cold—
rose wood. An army run.
London, France, the American
West. Pleasure led to paper
that pretty fall when
history opened & future
doing certainly tried.
Remember? The wind,
big hair. Peace hath added
seem to stand, strength to
length. Fair copy,
laid low, placed
the law below although.
[21101 – 21200]
O Sasha, with your opalescent handbag
of prepaid parodies & canceled wariness,
why do you ruminate the aforementioned
stylus unappreciated? They gravitate
a saccharine quaestor wingless,
interchangeable with elephantine
Hegira, amassing littoral sandpiper
& a penchant for quackery. Innuendoes
squirt a full-fledged muskrat saturation.
Diphthong & generalisation shackle
a runway Bronx eyelash with accusative
tightness integrated with endemic
tameness. An artiste must desecrate, even
as gelding suckle, by a toxic Mersey
that gratifies no one.
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Psychic Meatloaf Poetry Journal