Saturday 7 February 2015

ReImagineing Morocco For The Wolves

The Fast Bending Spooned Breed Of Holy-Watered Actor,
Magically Enhanced With Plastic Scarred Surgery,
Rubber Hose Dangleing From His Bottled Euphoria...
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In Another Skin He Sings Of Huskies And Mountains,
Aiding The Loosened Lips Of The Mayflower's Puritan Dogs,
Possibley To Bring About ReRuns In Static And Foil,
Magnetically Pointing To Where All SunRises Fade,
As His Hand Protrudes From The Shellings And Smoke On Stage...
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It Is D.W. Griffith's GodDamned Bastard Child,
That Fair Chided Half-Wit Slice Of The Wooden Life,
The Hooked Bait For Snapping Suction,
Yelling With Spittle To The Numbers At The Auction...
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Cripples Deserting Their Crutches By His Side,
His Side...Wounded Bleeding For Virgin Strawberries,
To The Farm For Hats And Crusty Pies,
Mercilessly Pommelling His Mother's Thigh,
Wise Beyond ReCreation And Karaoke...
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His Brother The Coward... He Sits And Begs For Ravens To Share,
They Pass The Straw Between Their Pecking Order And Snicker,
At The Role... At Its Conditioning...
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The Tear-Wrenching Moment Where All Is Renown,
Gifts A Little Powder On The Other Nose,
Travels To Vancouver To Bet On The Races,
Gets Bronzed And Sucks On Inseparability Like It Was A Lozenge.