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For my fellow Lounge Lizards. - WB
writing through the earthboy 40 bill wetzel
they shook the green tree down its spindly bole forked back golden in crystal’s lunar waves the dirt is dead, further out wind is all the rage, lethal in the dust
we raced a century, skinning together stories the wages of sin, no one spoke of our good side, winter jingled meaning into the wind, bones leave no sign, famous in my blood mapped like smoke from narrow wind
men wept like public saints, women like lucky numbers in electric flame, drowning cats jumping against the new-found luck of sky and mortgaged gold he swung philosophic, implied in exile chrome wind decorated stunted light, dreaming winter against a world of silent legends
those songs busy with knives, stars that fell cheap when eyes color a winter blue starved visions, meaningless tapping in recollections of myths so simple beneath his bleached broken shack
No room for a wandering race dying from imitated life, images clattered, muscling winter red blood like rain in my bones, I’ll move on, the renegade astounded as real words create life where dreams must end
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