I see everything
from this height. I'm
over
all
less high but I still fly,
apparently with hawks that
cough up ripe guffaws
and squawk
at my presence and prying eyes.
I can engage camel mode
as if I had two humps
to give up, sparingly.
Even the creepy crawlers of the night
and peaceful sirens
of the dawn
chirrup out my name
as if the cherubim that follow me
obey the silent pentagrams I draw.
I have no name. I have no origin.
I live between the knuckles
between the space
between the frustrated grins
and greetings, rife with deceit.
Those moments in between
the moments, that's where I spend my time.
With that one who follows me,
in the blackened cloak
that reaks of tilapia.
Crocodile teeth
and tears of the lion make
a balm for my aching veins
when staring at full bottles
and itchy buttholes
gets to be as dull
as a yawning chasm
only half way under
went.
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