Spare mints blaze into introduction:
hands shaken, stirred by unconscious
swishes with thorns as fever signs
hot blood in the mammal-snake hybrid
named for apples and oranges, two
of the most similar fruit.
Futility loves itself
and I am at the precipice
of the same shouts
quiet sidewalks
shoes of all types
the claim to crime
is a demand for just
as I say.
Simulacra, will you never shatter me,
I would be grateful. I am afraid of losing my threads
and sinking into a pillow covered in what I thought
was drool and turned out to be I've been asleep all
this time.
Not going anywhere fast, outclassed by
clarity's claims: submitted by earnest eyes
against the system, structure, panopticonical whirlwind,
springtime's prediction: there will be leaves, leavings, left;
politics cries in its soup: there's not a vegetable in sight
only flies.
Roman Ryan 