6.


And if lemons chase down imperfections of my sorry memorandums,
Impassioned skeletal proposals unzip my eyelids forcefully.

I down black stouts as metaphors for toppled kings, spit out
Harlequins of doctrinal disputes until the tongue feels like a flame,

And the fleeting ice cream trucks the sky’s held blue and suspect
In its carbonation belt out songs of lunatics in hand-bell choirs.

Bring out the weaponry of porphyry, umbrellas stolen from flamingos.
I will stoke the pinpoint dispositions of inner locomotion.

I will filch dithyrambic milkshakes orphaned to desire.
Is this earth behooved to beehive ecstasy, fragile as a fig?
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