pome samplre

when you wake up hungover and want to write about destiny:

every word, so slow to come, is destiny to say

nothing can be unsaid until you scrap out the worst

parts but stop the cart keep rolling,

the only form, sounded out by tenzing the throat-singer, can

be a starstretched poem emptied out pouring quiet:

whether it’s good or bad it’s still your destiny and you’re still hungover.

go and find.

 

If you could not see me for seven years more

would you pop off facebook and leave me alone

would I have to seek you in the sage hollow fair

or would you just text me later

 

confront the ugly-faced gremlin who says everything you do is stupid

and wave your genitals at him in the crudest way

 

A half-eaten greyfut

it wasn’t very good

but then again, what did you expect? a grapefruit?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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