The
Shooting Gallery
“Still
life” portrait, you've focused these cameras angles off your shooting gallery. As
these nurses taped up that pale blue door so you could function as a physician
to yourself,
& The type sheets blank... Curious & clean, but are these notebooks numbered?
For they seem taken away in a green eye of flirtations, redialing for relapse!&
Your just so unable to label what we have. Betrothed as you are to the past, as
our present
moment seems but a mere pinprick, & those watermarks brushed past your cheeks
in perfect strokes. Centered in a place as unstable as your folks, & these traveling
cities sleep in cycles, where winters were warm.Resident to a flightless bird,& you were a dock of dopamine, nevermore now but a dream. For erasing is at first
a gamble
before it becomes an art, as these smudged stories of paper figures are collections
of its proof, & those sewer rats were shy in barrels of sunlight, that
territory where
their wavelengths were out of tune, but oh how they were taken in by those moments
of a simple pleasure. That sense of acceptance I have yet to unearth inside,for
he'd always been a man of words rather then a man of the world. As those
stories of his
forefathers were the only sentences that seemed to strike a chord, dope sick
& bored,&
They've eaten away our ambitions. Leaving only one motive. Perhaps only mystics
or the
magi could relate, & obsessive patterns ink the blank stare of those walls
containing this
shooting gallery, oh how I wonder if this place will ever be closed?
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