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Revived from a lethargic confessional jog in dialogue
beneath the uninspiring
crimson arches of crying cement,
I awake in a haze of mildewing yearning,
stiff, erect, paralyzed in energy and contemplation
like some gaunt, soulless scarecrow.
My nakedness spins chilling cycles of barbed spasms
through my pours and into my stomach
as my eyes regain enough clarity
to notice I have been transported
to a clearing of a towering, cadaverous smelling ebony oak trees.
Each is covered with huge chocolate sleeves
when a trumpet raining sliver powder
floats into the opening
sounding like an auctioneer.
One blink and I am back in my bathroom,
the trauma of an empty toilet paper dispenser
a greater mar to my creative Eucharist with a tiled dimension
than my cerebral communion with a bowel movement
could endure
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