_Fear & Swans Itch_ [ 1 ] by John Lowther


Is there a voice for this swan's itch? A voice

Not afraid of death by a thousand cuts, a pox, scratch that,

A vox that dares to unhorse the emperor?

Thought not, tied up. This is the end of the line.

Lay my body down and then stand

Dug in and ask the original question as outlier and

It begins to itch likes radials

Like things in your nose from a toilet seat

Huge WG party, Leipzig, and

Hold up there while the itch catches up.

Scratchy or not, this is a little black animal,

Past angst washed up and not the revolution

In excretion that has been de-eulogized

So fitfully in each small trapped cell, irregular

In size, and where many were clustered, filled

With viscous, and have been unpunished.

Above here the dermis sprouts impulses

Which drop a nicotine stain though

It is probably tar from whose pits, later, you know,

Each impulse set out on a lamp stand.

Swans the multi-tool. Pain in occiput. Twenty-two

Hours later vielleicht. Too many survive

To play the game that way, mutually assured destruction

Of left and right hands but they know

There are swans aswarming, what each other

Are adoing: a head-game that

Stays with it because it likes to fight. Pods of

Oh yeah. The rite of hot water disputes

Nobodys got a neighborhood

Bring back whatfuck but wrap things

Fringe on a tiny cowboy hat with some software logo

Constant invasion since two cents.

Embattled splitster seated. Image file of the heist

Because there is supposed to have been a theft

Witnesses diverging but so many and more the sense of loss

Than any clear idea of what was lost, just it. Another

Fold has other pulls old feels old buildings

A narrative it that swannily glides before us

Just out of reach. A thirty-three of

My forty-five saves time.

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