That she is vain… the wind around me

ruffling black-grass of the crown-ground,

she disperses my sanity-seeds all around,

despite of what be told by double-eyed-faces,

this blood-canal bursts by yearling-races,

that which sews placebo-roots onto me,

inscribing words in this stain-shell by a fee:


holding my crouch-stick, never be straight,

to wash her point-toenails, her tongue thus sate


For dVerse, where beguiling Bjorn Rudberg holds a Meeting in the Bar. I will be in and out, here and there, may be dizzy or vague, but in the end… in the cavern of your words, I’d find my space.

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