Five Poems by n/a

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My Only Friend

I call it “Puttyface.”
It’s a hominid-shaped protein
Pushing mass up a gradient.

My friend Puttyface was strange around sleep.
The water-glass-bell alarm clock—
All-but-intolerable shrieking.
Does this imply it looked forward to bed?
Baroque masturbations, two cigarettes
corresponding to its sacred integer.
Yes, Puttyface had his human.
The hobby was movies.
They often advanced the one
with the symmetrical visage
and never failed to succeed
to fail to appreciate what I assume were the
“special effects.”

But speaking of Puttyface,
here it is right now
come to tie me up again.

 

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