//a conceit is a concept wielding a weapon//

Pink lenses make me see sense My left hand’s pull contradicts The right hand’s push & I realise I see in Nothing but disorder & conflict

Rose tinted spectacles cut out the burning hum Make out you agree and therefore the scientist wills it to be & Suddenly it becomes the order of things

//Numbers on a barcode

The lettering as a skeleton

Embossed and embalmed

Let’s talk some & put flesh on those bones

Don’t know paper from plastic

—Or Even—

Hanging out in a skip from doing well

Trained as a ballerina with tight, little moves

Now I’m nothing more than a Militia with curves

My clan of skunks are on the move

They’re coming from me to you

If you catch yourself in the right wind

You’ll know how deadly

If you catch yourself in the wrong mood

You’ll know you’re not ready//


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