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WIFFLED RED THE DYING wiffled pink wiffled red the bloodfat sky meanwhile the porous tears of a widow effervescent and incandesent - the rotting red remains of scuttled stars- (foundered yet and lost) -sinking slowly to the bottom of the skies and unsaved by grasping halfhearted halfhands -brittle winds call -we are medusa’s children we are medusa’s spawn, cannibalized by dreams, haunted by the dawns, the cores they’re slowly rotting, the mantles they’re cast aside, the flames are limping upward, dampened by the skies, they are listed, they are destined, they have been called out - such the ones the leaden birds poisoned by midas flu - nested true like russian dolls - onions so peeled by red faced red eyed red handed wives tender and terrible lost in the great labyrinthine smallness, the shallow depths of circuits worn clockwise counterclockwise routes marked by rugs and threadbare windows worn so worn by melancholy stares and a thousand sighs a thousand sighs from lungs filled with stale air and a cancer they called hope for the diamond for the darkness that shone that blistered the eyes and too late too bad the minds eye long ago pecked out by the feverish beak of some stealthy nocturnal fire boiling along the edges of perception stoked by the sweet breath of time. night it falls now, see children, see the beautiful sky and see the twinkling stars.



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