the phantom's fusillade (or armor)
encased in a kind of pavid corset
that pinches the depravity he juggles;
he disappeared when he stoped talking;;
the poem that lives within this animal,
this magical juggler, is a maniacal error
onanistically hallucinated;
his fragrant misery lives within his bloated nares
so that on inspiration, he is stabbed
by his very own majestic maledictions;;;
I met him once; his brilliance left me dumbfounded;
the stench he trails is that of decomposed memories
stagnating a psychic sanctuary that houses torches
which light the phallic lamps of our dreams.
(#17 Winter 1997)
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