Hole punching is the anecdotal medicine
a man still looking for effeminate
Gin recipes hidden by girl friday
ancestors at a loose as to whether
the shaking hands poking out of
lye graves surrounding empty
Cans of fly spray left in whistling
grass with hedge bets and
dead lions of the parade.
Whilst fiddling the pocket watch and
ring a roses the Remains of lynchpin
the choker hanging on the bristle
scratched doors caught up in the
dog tag name of who’s my maker.