“The Soft Machine” Machined #2

by grey strata of subways—
terminal postcard

rotting in ozone
chrysalis—sun stuttering
in all-night purple

smell of cobra jazz covered
in iron heart of

goof ball sleep—rasp of
green slimy iridescent
shit rubbing on flesh

somewhere in the cold
mouth of heavy knife time—boy
torch moving, rusty

lamp, tongue terms—round disk
of morphine, script gristle in
rooming house bathtub—

shrinking bread over
lagoon of old saliva—
village of built racks

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