I cradle misfortune in a frenzied bas relief of boredom
Mouthing a peeling phallus, puffing greedily
In the midst of broad-fisted raconteurs
Built of meatier stock and smoking stoically
I am aware of only my ass-bone
And even then I shift madly
Brushing ashes from my arms and legs
Choking with the filament of philip morris branding
That it never crossed my mind
crossed my mind as I sat
and sitting at the beginning
I started again, with a brief imitation
Of what I thought I ought to be
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