Thursday, September 29

'The sky is gray as fuck,' he said;
'There hardly ain't no blue at all.'
The wandering, old and graying hawk
Still wings it over the mountain's tall,
Imposing heights of rock.
The creature whose so-stricken wings flap weakly in the woven air,
The chaos web it works upon unceasingly...

To those whose quanta can't conceive, of who or where,
That either can or can't -- we're careless, see?
The tauro-(e)sc(h)atoligic scents borne by windblown woes,
A thousand hundred phlegmful maws that hock their blackened indigos.

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