all the way until the wobble brick

and this, well, the kind of gathering of sad drinkers
we found each other in the tingles stepping out and making way
thinking about the even odd models with beards
objected to the thrust into collaboration
where poets, artists and musicians got drunk and depressed
some boundaries further, of course, were mixed no more
for some it suits well, for others – absolutely not
the house was filled that night with anyway
a perfect big blank some extra whatever
no universal laws of closed room with all the words for another crumpled
texts after the audience can give you too much that they want to
into the air and sometimes a very special condition to nobody
the reality of another fantasy, another evening of airbrushed sensibility
blowing everyone away from buckets of day-to-day
with boxes to be ticked this elegy to our human form
the graves wind and the frosts rain
the corridor between a chunk of prose and a possibility
contemplating contemporary complacencies
the condemned man’s tots


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