vest or belt (they died of fashion)

eighteen with a bullet bush biscuits flying into the sun, each one made of fourteen raisin and sugar coated ginger bread men
made in the image of the immaculate perception, raised on chicken fed on bread and water untill the oceans ran dry
when this van arrives under your bed, prostrate yourself with the crushing victory of angels breath across your pillow
when all the books go blank, get the kids next door and give them crayons of life remember to smash all the mirrors
those that succumb in perplexity
the fallen few
even more
standing
still….
 
It is impossible to render a rock or butterfly from an empty specimen of pure thought or faith
go now children of the sun, atomic principia, a posteriori
clone of a clone of a clone
 
send in the clones…
 
you  you  you
 
(based upon true stories of pest control within the realm of the triple fronted cream brick venerial disease white car tyre swans and everything)
 
 
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