filthy chowder
meat and sand the
wall’s lap protectant’s
dribbling in the falling hole
yr regurgitant chewed
,what stuns its ik ik ik
the desert ,with rain ,fills
,choppy grey lake ˄˄˄˄˄˄˄
rabb its twitching on the
shores sodden books
tongues for markers and
,like syrup ,I sank into
my pants ink ink ink
where yr facial claw
retracts the udder
clown inhales~.~~..~.~...~~.~
~.~..~.~...~silted air~..~.~...~~..~.~~..~
La circulation souterraine que alimentait
nuit et jour...
- Antonin Artaud
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