His own medicine

Black threads made out of God knows what whip
at the window its warped square like poor Cicero’s
leaning torso, and a flashback of flashing sprites.
Where the brain grew skinny it gained in height.

Clouds they aspirate and who knew in their bellies
thrived crawfish their antennae whipping like
black threads God’s own medicine induced to perch
in the center or high kilter of my pupil fried.

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~ by Jeremy on May 12, 2012.

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