Finding a sweater string wrapped around an oily doorknob

A bucolic turn, for sure.
A froth beard on this hulk
jazzing back to the little old house
sold ages ago to habitual people
and behind his one sewn on airfoil
an ear-spanning sprawl sinks prostrate
wearing, centrally, forty thousand windows.
Too poor to grow his limb digitally
he spurned a rabid taxidermist, white recently,
a latent expert in denying his penis
looks like scissors single armed.
Behind him the zones, Galils, geneproofs,
and his hound, beyond the bones of cattle,
ankles the most abundant and maybe a baby tooth.

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~ by Jeremy on September 23, 2011.

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