Shot Of A Cannon I swallowed that October, drenched in foreign syrup. Yellow bellied, even more naive. I reluctantly recall the streets detested by culprits intent on rocket launches. It’s a penchant for travel, on the strength of an urge. Making things easier, as pain sears autumn. It tends to an eruption bargaining with rivals for relics of departure.
Human Intervention
You were saying, making entrance: -we carry baggage that come from the living years.- We find meaning from living in Sin. I’m the one who gave you a cornet, but it’s been ages since you let me play. Crates filled with guns kept in grease belong to the Christ Child. You can pose with them alongside your steel guitar.
Highly Visible
We’re living it out
in this current era
with
a ferris wheel ticket. Standing
under the viaduct,
we pause in
our grim march,
towards the other MayDays. A
hope continues,
for the secret
vials,
full of the evidence we’re
searching for.
We all
know Bible figures
get smashed to smithereens. They
roam beneath arches,
to plant warmth in horror
on rebel girls who sunbathe.
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