All the Pills are Sick by Heath Brougher

Remnants seized otherwise joy

from the tinsel basket laid on the windowledge

soft enough to be pillows; rectangular embryos pious

mothershrouds floating hands over mouths

oozed with sap, eternal man dances

the hallways clear to forgetfulness,

thrust standing by the gasoline when possessed

along enthralled visages of spilled dreams

learning their nonsense to be blanked and turned into reality

thisly fosterably and lulled to a dormancy

men play pill games to sever, once frail

near the extraneous engine, blubber from the meat

soft again enough the bloodripple succumbs

to the sedated pain we hear yelps

through the rampant noise of the bloodbath

thus earplugs find their way

to deafen the voice when he sees you spill stringent dreams

during the preface thin and blonde to the metropolis

from otherwise joy wholesomely oblivious embryos

stragleholding somehow rectangular piousfed

their dullnipple ultimatums of nearly-nonexistent men

dancing though hallways to restricted whorerooms

by the umbrage of motherhands covering eyes.

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