Need FoodKen Rumble
A snake eating another eating a snake, dried petals around the shoelaces: there is nothing to fear, the great, grey expanse of it; or is it really nothing: the fear of the total loss of interior decorating. The fear of a dream in a dream; the fear of dropping a hammer from great heights. When will we know, oh when? The green truck rides the edge gravel – dirt clods among the grass, stakes by the trees, the builder’s moustache needs a trim: this way realism knows where it stands, an ancient yamaguchi with springs. The saleswoman loved mock orange, now it’s crepe myrtle – the way her boss stands behind her, the news is never good. Hang roses from the ceiling to draw the eye upward: something is there at times, something is here/in the grass growing.
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