Moving Fragment

Blast it!- the gods lied to me again.

I’m not the Proctologist of her dreams.

So forward nasty pilgim.s.

The [believing] grooves in my brain are trenches…

Of my ancestry.

Harpsicords. Electric drizzle stampedes the frequency

Of magnificent herds, like buffalo moving across

Three states before the grid reaper took all magnificent

Sunsets.