“The Soft Machine” Machined #1

obsidian pink
of the fish city—spectral
palaces of cold

blue fluid heavy
as word dust stacked like lust in
shuttered silence—we

came out of the mud
in blue image forever
trailing patterns of

demagnetized glooms
from carnival rooms splintered
in rotting orgasm—

we all live in the
fish city—dead postcard of
a place forgotten—

muttering burlap
music, addicts waiting in
the vines—blue addicts

in the attic of
crystal birdcalls—the city
from when we had names

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