Wednesday 21 November 2012

To the end of the world

Eight thousand three hundred and seventy four point eight miles
behind waking expectations
my slated mind would be
scrubbed clean of the sand
dropping through her hourglass
figuring calculations under bamboo
breaking waves breathing stuttering
hillsides gasping beneath neon
planes flying low clipping wings
scarred arenite pulling faces
thrill seeking pleasure miners
drilling deep down to an unrighteous utopia

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