Fluorescent light beams
drive lima beans

Bonkers bouncing off
digital lockers

Stunt from a blunt
my crucible cubicle

Plain stains grey sustance
doesn’t belong insincere

Not mine or just is
drawn invisible lines

Spot her rotunda’s Sunday
loom ‘round loom weave,

Bereave not mine not here
feel it not very far

Socked and shoed
rocking forces slice ice

Derive a sentiment
empty of question

Not of scars or bars
frequent signs line up to die

Side hurts hung out to dry
pouty stilts laugh because

He sounds saxaphonic
speaking, eating, driving cars.

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