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When the stork is eyeing your fingertips
And cherry trees sprout from your lips,
The entangling desire of alligator hips
Dangles in a mire of forgotten ships.

She is sick and full of fruit
Calling out against one single brute
With a jar around his boot
And a minstrel in his hair, grievously plucking at his lute.

What an odd placement of lilac roots lay here
As a crowd of opal flowers stare in a silent cheer,
But the beast of the ravine can only jeer
And think about the construction and how it is quite queer.

You smell of almond water poured over the Silken King
As the octopus longs for a mouth made of the finest sterling.
I can't comprehend the mathematics of the songs that blackbirds sing
And I can't make doll-house linens out of the smallest thing.
I've been reading a lot of Lorca lately. If you haven't read his work, you need to.
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March 17, 2008
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