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i keep telling people that i'm in the middle of something.
in the middle, like a dot , my fingers, look like round circles.in the middle of the centre,
words revolving around terms like unadulterated and free,
but because of middleness , i was left there in the nub,
like a jock that has lost his bushveld.
R U also in the middle of something, we then can be centered together,
turning circles round the core of smiddledness, cracking open all
that is a muddle of bulls-eye perfection!
the volume of work consumed by the Klatherbird is 400 mega-levels of sheer writing
materials, 300,000 massive beadworks of sonic floundries , a full script signage from
bottom to top including all abbreviations and sub-points, 100 steel made book types
closed at both edges and digitally understood as being an evolutionary system of itself,
37 completely ripe novelettes fresh off the stove where the process of symbiosis has not
yet taken place, a rather huge diversity of prickly drawn stickelites, 1 million pages,
the concept of Jesuit kindred-ity, 2 packs tobacco und a Fischer>
my second poem is unlike the first in many ways, it. is . its own poem not so much as the
one that i wanted to write but more so as the one that i currently can see futures of,
those that will reed it and say what a clever man hast written these words so deep yet so
lost so kool yet so hot so large yet so small so very like the sunburnt ee that hast
written before him never to rise up the dead crumbs of the man thatith now lay strewn
deep within the ground yet i am he who is alive today and when that day comes *(o now the
depth is felt wholeheartedly)* that i too shall die i request sob sob that you bury this
very second poem and all its resonance with me deeeeep within the earth so that i too can
be like ee.
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