Poem by Joe Duvernay
Two ways drained
From same kettle an drum
Twain leaks and froms. A standard script, lost
A title twat probest! A flute in ear, birth belch twist
And turn...let them bleed out,
these unexpected turns and twists
and split ear fists, tangled all up with
the following rantour;
In the highlands does by betty reside
In the by-lands near and due.
Back to front when wrestling with you! Be obscure, if it welcomes your ghosts!
Never de-mure, as the sun cuts in window,
hot saw blade been running all night! My sparrow gist,
My knee deep view to stream bed below, where
tree in grove sits sparkling with the green grass at his/her foot.
And despite call for fame, escape est again had
and no-face in crowd's sustained! Oh yes! The band plays on
And the end searches back so vividly that it runs into
it's own and the others coming!
And this morn-speak at paper wrapped in sound loss...aside,
Works well to walk with hydrogen awareness astride,
Walking those badlands together, welting while melting
into this twenty-first century man-hide and.
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