Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Fast Food Mystics

Clenching spiral talismans in an rutted staggered gait
Our mantras disregard the third eyes as somehow deficient
Whereas spreading the scent of smoking sage into the wind
Whilst nudity resembles naught to eunuchs and mystics
What transiting modish hollowness requires rediscovering?
Crumpled within the greasy fast food wrappers of absurdity
Discarded alongside the audacity of someday and someway

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