Work in a bit more reality, they said. Eke out what you can.
Watch a waltz criss-cross across foully fragrant parades
to dodge a payload of puta falling from impertinent parakeets,
unbuttoned in shades of mushmelon and muskmelon.
Reality dawns - a patterned mess like cantaloupe skin, you can't elope,
even if you wanted to, which you don't - as if you have the time!
Distractions number higher than the workload.
Reality is folded in on itself, like artful origami. What do you mean I've used that one before?
Comments about this poem (Balance by Alexander Hawkins )
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