[from: the Loss Lieder]
long at the state goes a finking loud-system, interviews
varnish toggles, with
match heads flaring up
and idiots twittering far less integral than our birds
crank flop overhaul mists to a rip where crying madnesses
all gimply ballistic major funders hey
this is fun
if not funds, a slapdash systematizer
muddles thru, around, over, somthin’
as to then lucky, if yer fingers shift
over miles of the grid, sparkling solar rime-storm
ab solving flooded plain miters, cracked fleecing
& gotcha remove tacticoid sag-a-roof,
slosh over yr sloptic nerve, holding unclear
at the point of an imp
on the side of the mountain
contraction of a continent or two, is not that
underlying a push from gale force unagree,
slip casing the joint, or the river area, drop into
flotation device for a normally crash-landed
childhoodlum
turn, manages sharp reddish inks
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