_Fear & Swans Itch_ [ 20 ] by John Lowther


You can't make this stuff up.

The last stinging tracing of immediacy

Manages our expectations, through

The clinging. Eighteen hundred hours

Must it walk through the buildings

Negate the streets and grab the stuff

By the Hauptbahnhof. Rub it. Press

It. Don't itch it. Swan scratch fever.

Schmeargeld gnot of a desire for commodities

But of a displacement of the desire to know.

That goes in here somewhere. It

Itches, itch itches it, scratch stands by the button

Sees no opening but god what a morning eyes

Somehow, over the endless dermis of twitching

Swans & yearns

Bones in their bills blood in the water

Swan seizure peaks peeling off sheets of itch

Lighter to open beer bandage later

Itch been up to something

Peeled off

& the adhesive is like a crime scene

Living room made of dust and fear smell

Cowering itches, scratches lying bleeding, thick

Creak of uniforms and the dry snowman's sweat.

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