what do i know of beauty anymore,
if i see it i would i kick it,
throw it in the air and not remember it,
does it lay like the sea of dark
in the night,
what does it mean
in october,
and what of me,
what do i mean in october?

is it an umbrella on a burning fork
putting out the rain,
has it sea eyes and the driest
heart of blue,
by what plot holds its
breath long enough to reach bottom?

does it go less than warranty,
without the prism of guarantee,

if so-yes.

a troop in tune with
dreadful proposal, dare we come to the end, lift
our gaze to what is not never with us,

pinning for the wind
arms uncrossed

and being fixed instead we stagger

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