30 White Horses and Alan Strang’s String

I stand before myself in a small bored room flossing bloodily away
The CIA kill line of terror brought down over the throats twixt white houses
They cut deep at the decay of my own mouth
and the words that have been in it
The little corners of my milky whites where morsels had stood still
Dodging the sweeping gaze and brush-like eyes the tooth sleuth had begot
Sawing through the fences the landlord Ginger Ann Vitis had put up
So a neighborhood of thirty pale neighbors, some with just a little more bling
Could sit atop a red hill to think of many more things
Like for whether their god Tong-Gu
Was a person, place, or thing
And what the bottom line was
And wasn’t the top line just the same
And why did the earth bleed sometimes
When the strings weren’t attached
And why the pain was so good
It felt to feel at all
That numb be comfortable
Ignorance only bliss before knowledge
and then.
unto my ivory shells I let loose the deluge my kaihalulu rife with strife liquors
not to be swallowed, a mere washing of the port with a minty sea liquid
from string to a sting, a salt, an acid, sloshed up against my open wounds left right left right right left right left, made to make purple my painful spittle,
at least I’ve an appeasing breath.
I swallow the poison in small quantity near my spitting’s end, an old wives of the mind’s tale of cleaner breath cleaner throat and lungs that I’ve dirtied them enough and the bacteria there really only wishes to help, helpful though he is. But you go through life believing in the things that aren’t there, cause it let’s you sleep at night with your bleeding white smiles, smelling nice in suffering. Practice makes perfect.

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