Tuesday, February 27, 2018

#343: ‘EVERY TRUE MAN’S APPAREL FITS YOUR THIEF’

ABHORSON! ABHORSON!
iambic containment
contaminant   
                        with sad eyes
the poor fellow looks on
not understanding while I dig into
his super supper utterly blinded
it is not my first encounter with a phoenix
rising from the acid

riveted by uncouth paradoxes
perhaps the executioner expects us
to understand him, his underground
workplace Abhorson
the quintessence of correction
the rootspace where stands the bladed wheel

glutted with human sausage the inferior critic
thinking for all of us now who stay to watch
the delicate warping of words
Abhorson rules the vats
and rules the wheel upon its axle
my head my tongue  Abhorson
already talking the nonsense talk
of the dead




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