Wednesday, December 17, 2008

The Toothache

Odours of cloves
frescoes the corridors
of my pained passage.
Like touch of Jesus
a tongued impress
on condemned incisor

changes nothing.

Flecks of notions
speckle existentialist obscura
Textual glosses
of inspiration dwindle
into simulation
of a simulation.

Vicodin miasma
imbues vapours of bleached
cream of wheat
with metaphoric potency
of enameled detrium.

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