ìŒë§í 칎ì§ë
ž (Gast)
| | All this talk by a channel tunnel
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.
You were attractive my limbs
in sequels and spoofs, commemoration my organs
with friends gone by the board, whose names like patients names.
Our clumped appetite stirs and how
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Hope in the right place, you said, is faith misplaced
or no hope at all. But I nearly, in my dreams I day-dream,
in my dreams I do not hope.
Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades in behalf of the honour as patsy of our whilom war.
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