Thursday, November 16, 2006

Derelict 2.2

Such bounty and still no coil. The hoses
are blurry in a pile, intestine code

pre-wrapped like Christmas to the bow.

I’m prepared to give a planetoid
over for our survival, that and some cream
wafers. But that is all.

Nervous congestion. The sealing
sphincter.

Rheumatoid-ocerous. Room it old. A room
filled with thinking, about forgotten giving.
One commercial of society bound
with phone wire.
I’m not getting a signal.

The mast is shy of its antennae
so the messages are coiling in the hall.

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