A Sunday Evening Poem

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The Beating Rhythm Psychotic

swirling clockwise the sands surround my head
violently throwing up a black widow brain twister
sucking at the orphaned airborne chattering near by
a taste of green drops, and catches on tongues edge
spit up ascending the ladder of the dark mass growing

yellow woven turnstiles shade broken mirrors blushing
few castaways survive the blue sharp edged slivers
a cutting positioned high slicing multiple hard wares
shaved metal showers fire the gears to slow grinding
hot the forging casts an orange tint inside quick lightning

skull bobbing and nodding a whitish poultice oozes out
backwards talking carnies run this shaky festival booth
the show, a perpetually moving storm of three card Monte
red the queen traveling veins of this tornadic spun tempest
to fall in monster hail stones pounding out the beating rhythm

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