My Frame Hung Clothes Poem by Dog goD 8Hate

Bones that hung clothes...
these bones drape lesser views
with time aesthetic's eye fails
blurred with apathy, the encroaching
presence move's closer to the core,
progressively growing vapid, muted
the image shifts from vital, more to bore
my hanger's no longer used for coats,
i go cold in winter or just stay in
my feelings on outside matters
have waned as the media exposed
more and more less attraction due to
too too many shows, the gullet has
known too many swallows, it deadens
acuity's tone. With stomach fraught
and with overfed fodder, i begin to see
how pregnant their lapsed baby's
listless fate.

i'll move to Florida ... pick oranges,
just sleep in the grove

._.