Blackmail the bitter honey –
a minute snag just below the ecology,
behind the frantic dogma,
outside the radius of a vanishing star.
We boil down the debt to
slaves in the blessed bath,
abysmal angels washing clothes
on a black rock by the black river of oil.
An inflexible penguin
with the customary sauce
moaning triumph to
the morning’s adagio shiatsu.
The only available maze
leaves me staring at the deafening floor.
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