dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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t e m p e r e d   f r o g g y

:  m a r i a   p a c e  

When the elves were married, little did they know
About the sacrificial cookies crumbled between sheets
Of glass. Woven, looming over the grassy knoll

A rock pitched from a forking vessel
Garden and froggy spliced in midair
Where under the seat the good sheep bleed

To countryside wreckage, the smoking fortress
Sounds of fairytale smells so rare.
Nuclear cleavage bleats and churns.

Hairs too lazy to stand on end. Wavicles,
Shining through smog, condense in
condescending lungs.

And why not bleed for a living?
Soft flutes, captured in laboratory breeze
Freeze wings, sharpen ears for bullets.



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