Subjective quasi-anarchic
embryo ideas interjecting
stray dreams into a literary
war-story and maybe two
language stunts, etc. and
to get a fluffing-- a tingle
of nerves, a spasmodine.
The last flushings-out of
madhouses and prisons and
missions and work farms
to walk the streets and ped malls
talking to shadows and reflections
leering at passers-by and
should (must!) be on a ward
someplace instead of where?
Author notes
Written September 14th, 2004
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