chucks line the hallway, by Michael Crumpton

we are a consequence. our bad ideas brainstorm.
dire mechanisms
twist and turn, give up

the fairy tale mob
born of other’s dreams.
lost on perfection.

deliver me, hungry ego,
blasted rats.
fill my lungs with church smells.

stagnant shortcomings
with pews of dirt soaked wine.
everybody stitch a new skin together

massive sorrow
automatic in being,
geared for getting going on downs

and whales were never part of us.
a result

pliers, fucking.

somewhere it shines.
bitter fellow angioplasty
tucked into a bright satellite conglomerate

o follow in the swell.
greedy regrets that stick
served under fluorescence’s glow

and somewhere,
a pair is being pardoned
the cliche 
uncupping of the hands as the bird rockets fourth

our home,
stuck in the mote
met with 
ammonia glances

it’s you, diana
the typewriter keys
get stuck in your rib cage



for more of Michael’s poems, go over to his blog: here

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