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It’s so much easier to read aloud some

rows of iambs running down the page

more dulcent than unruly crowds

of un-linebreaked distress so you can’t guage


Where outbursts stop or change their pace

leave you confused and going back

to try and find out where you lost the track

of sausage-like extrusions in paper-chase


Across your

                                field of vision

a little perhaps like trying to read

Macbeth or Dylan Thomas

                 under water

or through a frosted pane of inch-thick

armored Glass while listening to Philip’s

latest repetition of the same 3 minimalistic

dipthongs and wondering    why   or when

or how   it’s ever going to end

going to end

                      to end     to end


going to end?

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© Johnmichael Simon



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