Not more than party footfall on ill-fixed board
No more sound than a gnat's seppuku
Strains necks to whiplash around
In shame's equilibrium, contumely restored
To kick the sentimental corpse black & blue
Smooth my hair
With spit-on-finger line
Tempt my brow to squeeze
My orbits to catch a roll
My arms might spread divine
And joints never, never seize
But ever disjoint Self
And Control.
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Sang froid is in the literal grave installed
The dust you attempt to shake off is never there
Unless the spittle dried on hated-face on hated-wall
Can freshly mount the deceptive air
Will you remember, my all-too-unbrief friend?...
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