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Novah Roranora Poem
Gone fishin' in a pool of bloody limbs,
With a skipping boat made of salmon's jello,
Unable to hold, I've been washed down a chute of ooze.
Springing into a mattress of milk-flavored syrup,
I like to imagine myself beveraged between fish as I ride the waves.
It seems the sea was whipped into foaming bubbles,
Like a firefighter's thick chemical shaving cream.
Above the tears, I've become so loud and so queery-eyed,
Scared of every bothersome creature beneath the Poseidon with a soft drink's
lemony-sour taste,
Thinking to wash away the flavor before it becomes more of a peephole
And to see what to devour quickly in a race.
Hoping that the old curmudgeon's pet grass didn't sit out a dance,
So I'm able to cycle on land instead of a tidal wave of tears.
A fantasy with nice dreams mounded with earth piled around over a capital hill.
Sloping down a planet's telex,
Signaling for a tore-up sidewalk to add a drain to sink the ocean.
A bulletproof monk, I wish I was.
Emphasizing a solitary dinner with stab wounds that only get bigger,
The more lonely I become.
Alone, wishing for loads of land,
Grieving tears for the zebra's dress to stop all the world.
Before fish get more advanced in chess,
I have faith that I will see.
They say that there is nothing to fear,
No dandruff like cocaine in the sea to inhale and tremor,
without a bite from the flesh.
Copyright © Novah Roranora | Year Posted 2007
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