Atop a bashful mirror abashed of little lost Vachel lost within a troika filled with Russian girls

In a colliery of stern haunches overflowing glasses flow within the syntax of the heart

An aria of the decomposed as thoughts caress and I try to dress them yet where are all the clothes

Of all of those of before atop this headless bed with its astringent head and musty palms

Of the hard labor of cheap wetless sex dry fucks fucked dryly with come to come and be sat atop again

In the labor of reproach as appellation ceases names are incomplete as thoughts

Serve not a purpose no not a purpose at all while the spavin swells to be swell

What will we ask when it swells no longer but no longer can we swallow our tongues

But only the tongues of those grown large within small walls to form an indecisive question

As the dirge drum drums  and a man is no longer a man and a woman is just a catalectic whore.


- G.