South of Two and North of One

 

Here comes that late inevitable moment
when you wake – shot out of any possibility
of harmony and confluence: burped
abruptly into sharp insidious incongruence –
somewhere south of Two and north of One –

stranded in the new unexpurgated Purgatory

of an estuarially mixed alertness:
consciousness, all edge and jerk. Hmm:
who’s that little blue nude flying dude?
Perhaps he’ll lull you back to murk.












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