Here, Now In The Junkyard Of Reality Poem by Anthony Weir

Here, Now In The Junkyard Of Reality



The smell of death
is a lover's smell:
unchaste, alone,
I'm perfumed by
magnificent disgraces.

When day is strange dream
Divided by night
It’s time to extinguish the light
And dance in the odorous places.

Saturday, May 6, 2006
Topic(s) of this poem: places,dance
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