Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Poets Are Always Rooted To The Ground

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to mans destiny bound
fucked by the world around
caught in a cosmic chaos
of words cyclically
going round and round
among layers of pain
despair morbidity
their genus
can be found
a rare specie
demented
soundlessly
unsound
falling in love
as an experience
always on the rebound
a pictured prostituted pause
riding on a mouse moribund
morbid morose on the fucked
venus of her pubic mound
penny wise pound foolish
on new grub street
they abound

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