posh-modern love

broken tooth of heart, strained
ear of nigh, caught up in dead
vows of thug love; argumentative
asides dare not capture the
slug love, dung heap of tire
some cabals stung on lol-fire.

there is a somnambulist rapture
in acts of sleep love; caricatures
of dawn arrive, dried out of their
funny face and extended metaphor;
this is the slide of rubber, slick of
oil, pall of the dung heap above.

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