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The Art of Aching

i am the monarch of silver daydreams
who once intoned forgotten long ago
but now & then
encased in crystal
histories of cardboard streets
around the corner & back
into the crypt

you are the walrus
of well-rehearsed pop references
appalled by improvised assertions
here & now
now & then
tickled by the cavalcade
picked up & pickled
up & down the racing rash of skeletal nights
caught running ’round the wee boy’s dreams
a cauldron bubbling
trouble sleeping
in tune with ever-persistent ghosts

we are the parliament of cotton
sheeted by the bloodstained pass
the gift of silver daydream friendship
now & then
here & now
all ripe & ready for the asking

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