Monday, December 6, 2010

BITCHES CALL ME ZODIAC


Combat boots and a clear umbrella
keep all three of us dry from the rain.
Back to that place of previous shame,
they all sit around the strobe light
waiting for their party guests.
Out from the orange grove,
through the bundles of weed
comes the man who lives in the shed.
The smell of incest or maybe incense
lingers in the room of the Persian king.
Let's drop a tab of x
and paper the walls with mushrooms.
Hey look a kitty!

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