Wednesday, April 30, 2014


The remains of what looks like a question:
since we’re even, no-one knows how it got
there, trying to crawl up the side.

On Cloud Nine, one-earner needs hunger
on foot, advice, the past. Dressed as God,
or siring transparency: it thrilled you.

If bans control the list, it doesn't mean
anything, northeastern bombers. As
pieces, uniquely designed, limits work.

Antagonism is history, for now. There’s
the lack of an act, simply because
those yellow lines borrow, run.

So disallow us to ruin prose, but
when you die, never move out.

All content sourced prom my previous Oulipost 2014 poems – each and every one of them, I swear. 

Thanks for following along.

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