sordid sonnet 11

it was only one time in the light of the century
these times have their own rhythm
he thought:   it depends on how you rate ‘em
w. blue light    or   shushing   or uncertainty
and then the polite room chatter satiety
you wait & maps are ridden
into clash zones       which is what gets written,
in the middle of apprehensive unsympathy...

in light of what you feel
numbness knots possibility:
nod at the Fail
or otherwise think:   syndrome—
turn up the old syndrum
slight     unlit    particularity

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