I raw ice.                                I war, ci?
I biked                                   on an ice
slice meaning                           “warlice chic,” oui?
Plane crash in Lokerbie,            Scotland: -273 degrees
to absolute                             zero is anyone’s guess.
What a mess                            of birthmarks.

Which is a frictionless                 variety of Moroccan Mint
where molecules                               mash and helium defies
gravity. (That’s what                 the buried mammoth ate).
When the Swiss smoke             twirls her curls
is a fat farm Anglo girl               with smallpox less cows and so on.

How I wanted                           to be blonde!
That’s when I broke                 into the Christian farmhouse
and a gecko and a                  gecko and a gecko.
See how the proprietress          scoops eyeballs from skulls
with her crisscross                   ladle? What a rustic song
calcifies Christmastime               inside a crate with Adorno,

a shoehorn,                          a miniature chateaux,
a woman’s molar                   and Kafka’s sisters yodeling
one side of the equal              sign isn’t necessarily equal to
the dismantling of lamps                or subjects on the other, a gate.

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