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Currently seeking a sublet for swollen consciousness, I’ll take
Any slick way to decrease the size of my decision space —
To be able to hide on a private server in the Galapagos,
Horizontal, yet chugging, and sort of spilling, bone-cold virgin Pina Coladas
On my sunburnt chest, while one-handed writing steampunk
Soliloquies on the back of a waterlogged book — perhaps,
With visible heat exiting my head in Times New Roman,
And out beyond the dopamin-ed event horizon,
I auto-dislocate my spiritual jaw and
Open my teeth wide for creative blueberries rolling downstream
Off of white-capped domes with browned veins and their
Little layered cupcake shaped noise-
Amplifiers strapped on their indigenous backs, and
Though I can’t prove any of it, I just wish you’d cut me
Some mental slack on the stress taught twine of realism,
Because after all, I drink coffee on an empty stomach,
And anyone can be a philosopher in the morning. …


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I’m throwing a mental rock at my younger self
aiming for the back of his head
where a big sticky note reads
“I’m ready for anything”

The senses kept pushing invoices
I kissed her for 10 hours straight
I bet the house and won a duffel
I packed light with dried leaves
and rolls of vibratory nothings

A good leader tests the drugs first but
Pope John the third was freebasing
on a stovetop in the vatican living quarters
while the cardinals stood guarding the scripture
and him receiving sacrifice in his left vein

I met myself a million years back
as some eukaryotic organism
sliming my way across a bath of bacterial filth
my sights set on a single celled hunnie
a fat donk and fine looking…


Am I Making Any Cents?

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‘The goggles show an innocence:
A coincidence can produce
In an instant
What the shrink
Grinds to after 56 minutes’

‘That’s good news. You’ve made it.
Gums that bleed blue from over-brushing —
Wainscot like the rising brain fog of
Hysteria, wet idols, and fans on full’

‘Morning and night, forget it,
Both are equally delusional.
Mid-day inevitably comes down from
The Bismarckian barcodes of weak half-life,
It plugs you for acetate, not sorry, just odd’

‘You think you’ll be able to fight it,
To perform binary coups d’etat of the Big Nod,
You know the one taste, everything is definable,
Put-in-a-mental-chart-and-chew-down-able.’ …

About

Jack Burt

I Don’t Know— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —

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