Saturday, May 1, 2010

lost

machetes clink together;
blink once,
twice,
and then they're gone.
what and where: we think we saw, we drink, we rob 
our mothers' purses,
go to breakfast, fuck,
and wake up in the middle of it, realize:
wait.
this is preposterous.
we are tiny wooden ducks that fell behind the piano.

"lost" doesn't even begin to describe.

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