Thursday, May 31, 2012

Echoes of Creation

I awoke to myself, that mirror in which I also slept.
 
"Morning," but dawn's gone,
ritualism and rites of passage pass by. 
Fuck breakfast.

Blue afternoons in my bedroom -
my most sincere compulsion overall is
getting high.

Never one sensation overcomes before another -
suffice to say that sirens whisper too:
I'm horny.

Come and hear the echoes of creation,
this poem from the throne
I wrote
while shitting.

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