Rapunzel Rapunzel

Harklow goes the hammer calling

down from the window you

can not have my hair, Sir,

put your left hand in my pockets and

my pockets are full of

pockets

​

Filtering through the window, the light

is self-referential in the slightest quintillion and one

other things that contextualize me, cut me down, cut my hair prayer I

say the lair is not far from here but the car is, clearly,

a bearpiece, a flying digital clock, the last fucking monarch

frozen in the air, the lives of your potential grandkids

​

Deal with the no deal and Howie sitting

in your living room drinking tea with

four Samoyeds around him and

those pale flags that twist and rise toward

that horrid wedding cake of a ceiling

​

And the calling curtain called and

was certain of the inconsistencies, the bleeding

bees the breathing

trees the

feeling that I get when

I look at that old grey GameBoy cartridge of

Bob the Builder: Fix it

Fun!

---

The British Art of Cigarettes (Haiku)

Soul Food