Foggy Dens

often, i slam gavel on crowns of consumer
cogs in old cigar club orders
stored in box for blazin’ up
when lost in fields void
of opiate flowers

as caged, blind-deaf ivory
poacher cowards

oh those old grey mares and
black-tie, rope tied

meanwhile i’m slippin’ down gaps
in my own sofa into
opioid clouds,

and i’m not sure the musty
dark down there’s served
me any better

they’re all go-getters,
but i let go, n’ down
a chaser,

now i’ll go catch ‘er
n’ embrace



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