LM: You’ve been made a fool, but for what it’s with, I’ve been made one too. And I only wish that I had been made a fool earlier when I lied.
BW: I breathe the grayest dust belched forth from city sores and pores. Seemingly certain of my place before this marble curtain draws. When in Rome you roam alone with no back to call your own. Rock your armor when you leave the house or risk some broken bones. Spoken poems go unheard by vagrant ghosts in open zones. Hope alone will not ensure you find a subway token home. Your walking husk will find it’s joy by poking holes in mason jars to free the fireflies whose lighted fly could not be taken far.
Fill as flask with phosphorus. Fling it at the pharaohs. Finally you’ve learned to overcome their slings and arrows. Pocket full of sparrows. Hollow bones, hidden marrow. Infants sipping gutter milk. Nourished within shadow. Doubtless daddy kept silver syringes in the garden. Haunting project staircases. Now he’s trying to beg a pardon. If pardons never come then the ghost commence the wandering. Crying from the catacombs. These folks are not for honoring. And you can tell the phantoms from the foragers with ease: by the way they rock their ashes and masks of displease. If pardons never come then the ghost commence the wandering. Crying from the catacombs. These folks are not for honoring.