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| Poetry
by Rob Plath |
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Don't fuck with the skull
it feels good
to fall asleep without brushing like you've gotten one over on mr. routine or the dentist or even death that is until your teeth start throbbing in your jaw all those nights you got away without sliding the toothbrush up & down & down & up all those nights you weren't kind to your skull & now it's having its revenge as you drink a cold beer or bite into a steak |
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green
beer, green lights
on st. patrick's day they crowd in the pubs & bars drinking glass after glass of green beer wearing green hats, sweaters, underwear a large percentage who never drink at all feel the pressure to imbibe those who obey the calendar, the traffic signals celebrate when they're told to celebrate brake when they're told to brake the daily planner-people, the graph-people the believers of billboards, of infomercials the worshippers of guard rails and itineraries they down the green beer once a year, get a teasing taste of freedom from the bracelets of routine then go back to their 2X2=4 existences |
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