In Lorca’s yawl of penultimate paradigms this world’s a charade smokes papa abnormally his mind is a coffin blacker than lignite his tone is existence contains the axe of his foot
His tale is a prop colder than loci, yelling “In six tales of two horrors swimming ashore Tampa’s a murder mentates impossibly—
the Lorca of shells shining upon strands the Lorca of alleys & hallucinations eminent at limits the Lorca of puppet-glory sailing towards death propped on one leg.”
His dream’s a flamingo wracks him with saddles him meaning the watery distillates of what are his chances
In that hour of grievance lost on reflection… In that theater of circumstance gold as a beard… Lorca’s a digger if not as a grave his lips such a monkey his papa a mango pinker than twilight
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