Poetry for the people. High comedy for the masses. Impossible fictions for the crumbling mind. Dig it, Stinky. Dig it.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Of Night.
The old man was dead, When I got home. But I thought he was sleeping, So I went to bed. Left him in his easy chair, To rot. Or fester. Or just sit there, Until tomorrow afternoon.
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