always late if come ring at all lines dead
are never met rudely ignored dont an
swear the mob when it calls cant see a head
wring numbers feel up a form keep no plan
keep no thing in fact wont be come a star
the race was false from the start the bell jar
tolls and our own trumpet waves from a far
stand downdream real QUIT gargling the guitar
- when is the MEAn can it be MEAsured in
-
shored what price for the dice how random rolls
whole worlds in whose hands or dust to dust bin flickering signalssouls matterof holes
bottoms up at last that is where I was placed
bowled over and out off side the end de faced
Poetry by iRate
ACTIVIST. MUSICIAN. WRITER.
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