revolution's happening on some other bread slice
evolution's acting on some other scale
my tongue is bleeding and it tastes like blood
desires are dry ablations
keats is scattered bones in a plane crash in country C
an anonymous island jungle
where it would be poetic to be
nothing works
when you're living in a bukowski book
i live a little life
on a big island
so much space
carpeted ground
exposed rock, fierce cliffs, raging surf
and where are the delusions? i miss those things
can't see the ones i'm in
people ask me if i'm writing anything
i don't know what the hell to tell anybody
something's missing, a chicken and an egg in country kitchen
and a hen and a rooster and a conjunction preposition
pre-supposed to wake you up in the morning
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