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From "Moths", Part 2, Dip

Every stream had its cañon, and in each cañon was a waterfall so high that no trout could leap up. Although they used to try it every day, not one ever succeeded. So it went on.


paid in full you must quit this place it was only rented to us the way all of life’s moments seem to moulder in glass cases in ad-hoc pet-shops with the snapped stick insect getting older slowly and with nobody noticing to be suddenly redeemed by an imposing woman wrapped all in black her gold jewellery strikes and rings the glass.
is any of this any help?

darling trains are leaving be on all of them drinking beer as europe is cerealised besides you putting my mouth to your palm and finding lumps of sugar there.
in the quad
ivy impersonates
love off the wall
a fifth side
is a trellis
for the coy
semen blood shit:
tears apparently are poison if you drink enough of them is that why they say “that’s right let it all out”?
semen blood shit
this narrative
in that order.

this will be as loose as losing you is I mean it takes a real adult to be systematic about a withdrawal and I am not that adult to be.
paper boats will be bullied by ducks I fear in oswestry or wherever that’s the way of things.
leave the city to sand
drop your tears for the glisten of crystals will scour our faces (this edifice) clean and then
we can open a door and face you.
“you are so beautiful and I love you.”
the bat screams
and so as to
the moth weeps.

a trout jumps through the rising halo of the bespangled plunge which bowls in a swirl of the fall to earth of the sperm and the spit of angered but dissembling angels welded to clouds so as to never ever ever fall into the fervent coil of the boil of plumes first encroached up on by their own advanced currents sweep in from wensleydale and
and the curb stones are hung in the weed bed as if they can really float these spiky thorns are the eyes brows of some devils and
these black brackish aborted depths are the tar from which the fangéd dinosaurs of our arrested desires never pull up and out from again.
(the curbs stones are fish and the fish is the brow of my forced and concentration is everything in this game.)
it is a game which is our sum total losing
all is still-moving balanced as a book.

the quick sand of my porridge mourning
the asbestos filled cavities of my city maturity
yes there are bad things in here as well as out here but once you had me to protect me from them would you hold my hand with your hand and tell me nothing about nothing one last everlasting time?
hang your foot up casablanca casanegra!
I am the beak of supervision
the front bumper sticker of disgrace do
not come to me with your grievance and I
will pass judgement on y’all now I’ve lost
it my dull eyes which are healing
over the same tale repeats.
some times it gets to wearisome too tell
which is the city of our heaven and
which the distant waterfall of our hell.

in the cavity a
north wind detonates
love’s pomegranates
and the giblet
tweaks its vines
sending down curtains
we look up open
mouthed to catch the
falling cateredpillars.

may flies burn the borders of the city with our uncertainty in their presence above our late morning pennine bed is that why fishing was invented?—some kind of a stop gap.
we feed on what we fuck around here where the tram terminus hums and the giant hoarding buckles it peels you might say that this place always missed you weeds grow up to be citizens in
the insects dance in the damp garden whilst the cold collie watches from a dripping sulk and your hand is not the one with painted nails reaches down to pet it.
a bell rings
gets abandoned to the fate.
oh the split base cupie doll of christendom
ee let the fumigation get the host elected.
there is no end unless you finish it
furniture sags below a yucca stump.


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