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Following The Flu

I want to live forever

In the days following the flu

Beelzebub’s retirement party Paper Mache at the Louvre

Clinking cups of earth worn remedy

Toasting each new day

The moist pink tongue that flicks the air

While relishing the taste

A zesty little lemon peel

Of tough and calloused skin

A fragrance underlying

Deep lungfulls’. Held in.

A little less inebriated

Now three bottles on

Awoken with an appetite

For moving things along

The lights are on at One Fifteen

Atop a feathered stage

The simple stride of marathon sprint

Sweatless down the page

Lest we be those who sleep in late

With nowhere else to be

Lest we be them who stroll along

Stuck ever on one speed

Lest I be he who represents

The benefit of men

With batteries that burn

Until they wont recharge again.

You’re married to the march my dear

You’re courtly with the flame

I’d ask for some discretion

While your wrestling the reigns

The envelopes addressed by hand

And sent over the hill

Short of all our best intents It will end up just where it will.

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