Track edges broke in a room that’s
ice fever fever you are nothing
your bones will grind back into the earth
and there will be no mentioning of you
It is time to be self righteous
Entering, frozen, unbroken glass pivots about into statues
closets entering tracen polar limbs
The room is filled with my
darkest ambitions, smooth lines
Your little friends are waiting, cocks in hand
with purple smiles and a compact disk
so you can understand
the fingers that kept me
awake at rest on your round
belly sloppy back of your thighs raised
stalking into this crease of nightmare I
present no illusion
you read me as you will
Around—the glass steadies in synchronized
shutter As it is alive to crush the
sepulcher is to thrill trauma cracks through
the hoarse throat touching the lock
Of bleached hair makes the room shimmer
in glass, breathe like dawn and the
little friends go on probing their neurotic cocks
against swelling glands that startle them
as planned this world would
be fire but that is not real, a
tear of a page and the glass so delicate
so strummed together in grotesque longing
will suffer the bend of its card expectation
stalking with no illusions I’ll imagine your eyes
before dreaming, never act (and make associations
with the solid metal bat,
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