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Alexis Orgera




Cold a welt, we are tired

are stately     are manic      and morose


all at once in the morning light,

below 40 below the sky below the bellowing


highway along the interstate.

Make my fingers happen!


Enough with the table settings.

Fuck you, made bed.


We are terrific         are bellicose    and standing

what nakedly what enchantedly


bed to bed to bed like heads—

mansion this to anyone


and you got much lumber

to contend with        to formulate


for the ambulance. Ack! Ack! Ack!

Deconstruct the making.


We are bed-lords        are lip-lords

are three hundred blow-jobs


in the cold, the cold a bruise—

are black-and-blue     are yellow-and-blue


are tender     are money-blue

asking the morning for just one more.


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