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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