The rain bulletins open a wound
it's sticky in the comfort zone
In the desolate aisles I/we runabout foraging
sizzled by brands
All colours bleed and run
in the soaped world
Vodcasts target the dread of dreams
re the decay of breath, bad follicles
The subject sits sideways like an object
distracted by rival cars
Who is the feebled verb
In the amphitheatre of coloured rhetoric
I'd love a cone of light and music
and an opening in the atmosphere
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