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With Wash’d Eyes
Treason for the royal soul to depart as such,
A great man is gone mad, I find
The moors offer centuries of wet smoke
But to ladle my needy innermost parts
Is hard. A daughter is a machine
Built of obstinate peonies and is housed
In the bluster and seclusion of an autumn storm.
She will tell you thunder ages but does it?
I knelt on the bluff. Foam
Dashed to froth on salty rocks until a nautilus
Pushed through, like the bulb in dirt,
The socket of each mine eyes.
I treat my Mary how a flint might.
A line left vituperated: “She’s cussing
at this shit” with bleu regiments
drowned like many fish.
I leak. Later an hour left,
feigning. You are the wonder
that it takes. Or the palisades just
bound a cow within me.
Ease smelt your womb, I tempered.
However tournaments sped
under salivatory ethos in need of
what glosses for calm.
I demand egalitarian myself
to be because vehicles signify
and so too. Justice butter be
shmeer o’er Wonder.
Goats slough vicissitude, he could
taste the gender in it, could baste
an hundred kidneys however
a lucky orifice gets news.
News print a disease eats slow.
To produce en masse is to roe.
Some thíng jars me into getting that
to produce mass is to slow
tragedy’s blur into a single frame.
Wonder’s what’s soggy from the lead
I leak. An umbrella opens in me as in
a cartoon esophagus bloat.
Need’s a gullet lets in isotopes ad infinitum.
Never knew my Mary how I needed
in a saggèd lung. I left an hour later.
I later left an hour leaking you.
Refrigerated Plastic Flower
What of it. A gleam one seeks, well
It is saccharine under frost, crystals
Dimming none the überhue modern
Polyethylene conjures. As a wizard
Lances warts their hands sprout to cast
Better, nimbler harm at the proletariat,
So too can one make improvements
To the color wheel with chemical purity.
Or so the crippling royal blue chairs, firm
From a giant mold—where the brunt
Of the expense originates—’s bowels,
Suggest. Meant for no leisurely sit, but
A fashionable crouch. Demonstration
Of galleries to visit, of facsimiles to
Approve if one was to live. A curtail
Sufficient for the taste of a flower bitten.
To lack a genus is to be free, so forged
From sterile magma the flower is ideal
Inside its miniature ice chest amongst
Mustard, rice in plastic, baby carrots
Gone slimy. It is a place for solids
Which explains the myth dispelled
Involving the fruits that inspiration
Buds from, rife with mold. The supreme
Fiction is transient, held over between states
As between meals, and if solidified
Into shape, is known solely by the heat
A toucher brings it like cool light arcing
Aslant a room and is neither the arc
Nor the catalogue kitchen that is idle form
For its motion to transcribe in
But act itself, which denies end. What
Of it. There is a process in which crystals
Fur a static object and it is a process.
Logan Fry edits Flag + Void with Matthew Moore, contributes to The Volta Blog, and has poetry featured in publications including Fence, Denver Quarterly, The Cultural Society, Reality Hands, and Best American Experimental Writing 2015.
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