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Poems from The Floor of the Mall

The Fish

The wine that is riveting and big time sordid
bugs me with luxurious miracles.
All that sugar plus a portable fable
in or under some red vapor
combs the sun couched in a sealed nebula.

The grand opinion, as yet unborn
elongates unlimited
at profound times, cruises the voluptuous
and pleases nights and mornings.
Rumpled lam (oh my god!) what capacity--

All in a vat with the fish (he's cool)
and your yeast, your yeast greening.
Lakes (oh my love) tremble and make their way to the nerves.
My songs convenient and foul
pour salt on such goofy loves--

All in a vat with the terrible porridge
and the saliva that died.
Whoever plunges down an oboe (my friend) without remorse
and gives charity to vertigo,
the roulette defiles him inside the ribs of death.


Brooms and Ploys

Oh fins automatic, hives, springs tramping bone.
Endomorphic seasons! You are my aim and my toilet.
The developer ants, my heart and my service
to one vaporous license and a vague tomboy.

On this grand plain of low tan, freezing is joined
by the lounge nights. The gyrations ensue.
My friend meows who attempts tedious renovations.
"Overriding enlargements," say all the carpenters.

Without further ado the core plan chooses funeral biers
and assures the long time descendants a firm
or bald-faced season without nose climates.

What a permanent aspect for your pale tendons.
See the nest for a party without moons, 2+2.
The skin is sad under hazardous light.


The Dead Joy

In a land green and plainer than snails
the view crushes my same profound fuss
or I piss a loose, taller messy view
and sleep in a bleak coma on wrecked lawns.

I am a witness and I am the trombones,
polluted and imploring an alarm to the world.
We lived, I and my friends, mixed with inviting heart boys--
Singers to the boats of my carcass, no world.

It's over! Nights of no company, without the Orioles and no youth.
Look, come to your death free and joyous.
Philosophies live. Feel the portraiture

and travel my ruins, all dunked sands of remorse
and bite me, silliest encore, quelling torture.
Pour the view, body sands. Aim and die for all my deaths.

--Anne Doolittle


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