modern love and warfare

a play of plexi-glass eyes,
surprise! none left but us chickens
home to roost,
the coops lie still
witching the hours
till dawn with dreams
of dust and dew
and colonels that parade irony
across festival red and white
windows. what eats what
the bacteria in our gut
might have something to say about it
if our throats weren't clogged
by the passage of the artificial

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