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  • Writer's pictureLannie Neely III

To End Singing

In great verse, terse

Bukowski nibbles gold flakes

from a nugget


“A Song with No End” drums, hums

the electric tune

of joyful soul


what death must drink,

shrinking tessaract planes

to abyssal linearity


to points, to joints

and the great author laments

with eyes closed


to the red painted fully, wholly

upon the grass-man’s lips

upon firm fibre


the infliction carried drunken, sunken

and postured for ego and self

twisted sad song


glitter-lipped fu-wah, tromp tromp, ba da

echo through mutated shell of green

lines in paper


joyful abyssal eyes firm sad lines

thick wine, so brave so true

end end singing


like a coin edge goes round, round

outside stares dipped shoulders

simple-same sin


words from stuffed birds and stereo, unwary

oh la la la means nothing 

and kills besides


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