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watching the Strange dig deeper for food.
repeatme

II.
 1
 
 
At the end of every blackhole is a Sun.
 2
Earth (like) is only possible, if blackhole tails are
 3
long enough and all the suns
 4
are healthy - still.
 5
 
 
That’s why I listen to Chris Cornel, so he can think
 6
And I can listen, sometimes I pay him to do it
 7
 
 
 
 
And then he looked at me and went insane.
 8
 
 
 
 
III.
 9
 
 
I like playing poker, it can see a man’s soul much like binocular in war -
 10
if the game is big enough -
 11
 
 
yes, that is Doyle Brunson philosophy, he said.
 12
 
 
be your self and know you always got to take something more than the rest of the people on the table, winner is a state of always.
 13
 
 
And then you looked at me and went insane.
 14
 
 
 
 
IV.
 15
 
 
In a moment, they connected, it felt strong, opposite from her unusual softness for infidelity, mistook it for a lifetime,
 16
a distraction from a crowds’ contract. Whatever. it was rather pleasant.
 17
Something happen afterwards, it was as if that casual encounter was the center of happiness, and she was so pre-occupied with her own life…that instead of taking the plunge she brazed it, and now she feels its scar, she almost feels the scorns, I say: she is Happy Damaged.
 18
 
 
Oh my god, you’re talking about me.
 19
 
 
And then she went insane.
 20
 
 
 
 
 
 
V.
 21
 
 
So I said what if we have a connection that will allows us to see our cards discreetly,
 22
As we play x-box.
 23
 
 
He said they are already working on it.
 24
 
 
I went insane.
 25
 
 
 
 
VI.
 26
 
 
99 cents for this!
 27
then we went Insane.
 28

22 Apr 09

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Comments:

Crazy at every corner, brittle with a funny smile.
 — unknown

thanks for the nice sound garden..
 — syrossoul

honestly, amazing title, flashes of brilliance, superb concept -- but it needs to be tighter.
 — unknown

hmm...






is there a rage against the machine undertow in this?
: )
 — fractalcore

wow -- telling us 'in-sane-iterations' from alliteration to obliteration using vicarious angles from askew to oblique provides a sort-of backward slipping beat -- always we ride the crest of the wave of I toward a further shore of oblivion -- here you've made us 'feel' the angst of the hours falling into desperation --  the time-is out of joint, o' cursed spite, what man was ever born to set it right -- the whirl'd turned inside of you, a-round, a-bout, as whirls do, a sigh escaped as you passed, alas, from ecstasy into the crash -- the poet is one who brings a fresh focus to the everyday, fresh eyes to the mundane, with music in the ecstasy of broke-back words in how they fly away off the page in particles 'n waves, with lip-synchronicity and all the metasensory expansions 'n contractions, falling and getting up again to constantly risk absurdity -- well done!
 — AlchemiA

Thanks for the comments. Glad this piece got some attention.
 — unknown

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