a poem from cross outs; a three euro book i picked up at shakespeare and co. The Arena by William Haggard. dry, something about profit and greed. i've never done this completely. untitled yet, draft one.
Great chairman of a second
deprecatory hand who thought money was
the name of a place where he strained
for two frightful winter boyhoods.
History isn't information
for a partnership of paper:
it is something to be inescapably
burdened by. Contracts
pretend people ought to confess.
Self-pity is vice of a certain drama
and words look a considerable mess.
You are wrong—intelligence can't be solid fact.
The issue is four thousand delusions
of a shadowed man who keeps his appointments
with a priest in his box.
Peace had only one head in silence
so I thought tomorrow was
a ring in the morning.
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