Shaken from my sleep
by yellow taxi dreams;
toothpaste is my cork,
stopping the wine from
sloshing around the great
caboose that is I, way off
the wagon, face down in
the sludge. Moontime
butter shoots me in the
eye, hot syrup; that sticky
pudding, fat with guilt and
irony. O’ how I fabricate
the lowest despair, the
deadliest joy, finer than lace,
as impure as rendition. Swear
me a fishwife, an earwig, a
flotsam woodlouse with but
a cube of cheese to stay afloat.
I must get back to the desk, to
the coffee rings and grassy knolls.
To the looking glass, without delay
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