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  • Old Skin

    WE smoke the toenails and hair
    of the wiseman
    under a BLACKGOD’s thumb
    we dance like painted puppets
    she bleeds orgasm in techni-color
    an ocean of alien mystery
    we eat the wiseman’s eyes
    for sight that we might
    see the darkness if we kill
    the lights fast enough
    we eat the brain and pray
    that our eyes can open wide enough
    we burn the dry shell, a funeral chant
    the pulse quickens and we dance
    as the blossoms fall
    a scattering of dust to the winds
    this celebration of old skin
    I feel every flower that is
    screaming to consume you
    the earth and sky your cradle
    the earth and sky entomb you
    so is the way of forever
    teeming with simple cruelties
    beatings in cold rooms
    hands and head not found

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