Slippage of the discs
A silent progeny of simple, puissant coordinates
Some go through the motions
I make no bones about what I want
Deeming anything less to be unreal
Strip the slashes and the parameters
Under the silent star a mouth goes hungry
Hungry for kisses more than anything
The knives come out as the moon comes up, but are gradually returned to the sheath
Violence in many splendid reds becomes no one
I demand an accounting of the errors
Sliding down the path to the end of the garden,
One slips out into the forested night
The objective drawing nearer by the day

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