Thursday, March 12, 2015

Chronic Experiments

One gas against the poets
Is that everything they vent
Is a kind of surface effluence.

Pavlov measured gastric juices
In the starved esophagai of dogs
With holes in their living throats.

At the cost of your soul!
I've been waiting for the moment
When the book calms down.

Hiss, quoth the propane heater
Breathing like an anchored dragon
Down our pretended banquet hall.

You can't imagine me without
Imagining yourself, circular ruin
Of health, all we, unhealthy, are.

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