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The air in the narrows
makes tidy museum pieces
of rotten fruit, spilled fluids.
Oldenberg. Jackson Pollock.
Shriveler's Block.
The smell is not pronounced
but stutters, pops
like yellow buttons on
Mickey Mouse's pants
Close to the floor
emptied
flat as a foundling floor show
unable to flee
Even the paint on the wall
reminds one of spoiled flesh
traumatised, distressed
Halitosis. Piss.
J.K. Rawling on a bad day
beset by dowts
crowsfeet on linoleum
All the wizards are dead
There is no turning the corner.
3 comments:
As sad as said, the wizards brought it on themselves. When they killed the dragons, magick died. When they killed the last dragon, they were no more. "The air in the narrows makes tidy museum pieces of rotten fruit, spilled fluids." indeed. Your words make splendid gallery pieces to the world we live in now. You seem to take less offense at what I say when I post anonymously.
Thank you for the kind response, Mysterioso. Offense ? Nah, but forgive me if I've appeared a tad tetchy of late. I noticed it myself, but had hoped no one else had.
Tad techy or not, I still luvs ya.
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