Thursday, July 1, 2010

966. CLINGERS

CLINGERS
They're clinging to me like dope fiends,
clinging to the lamppost I hang on. Not a
gibbet nor a cross of steel could beat
this situation. Badness in the alley.
A mock fury in delight.
She too knows what's going on :
little girl lost, and her in skirts, wearing
that ring and smiling. I wouldn't want
to be there for that - no, man,
not at all.
-
It's a lack of luster that makes lackluster,
I suppose. It's the darkness on the
light side of the moon that
really makes us wonder.

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