This is not a poem
trained to go through it
as endless
syncopated
masturbation
repetitions
blank stares
images
frames of desire
boots
ties
lovers
bags
rugs
children
art
books
friends
yes art
brothers
a grand
stock exchange
pushing and shoving
toward certainty
the brain awaits
but no release
it’s nothing new
made it all
practically am
you know
i find it funny
the only thing that
truly worries me
in this immaculate
ruin
is
we’re still
headhunting
gypsies
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