HarthPoetry

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He is Witnessitis

He painted his fingers

He will wait for the sheep to come to him

He likes the smell of fresh baked bread

He wishes to dine with her at that silver place

He rides a bike

He conquers cities

He owns a gun that he does not wish to use

He dies every day

He is in heat

He strays from the junkies and thieves

He hears people tell him that he is a manipulator

He walks the streets full of subconscious persons

He is not prestige enough

He must take photographs

He is gay, he is an artist, he writes poetry, he must be gay

He lasts with a golden flower

He paid his dues

He has no best friend

He drives a Porsche

He develops his own drugs

He is an angel

He has curiosity that kills him on corners

He has not been mugged

He crosses the street in front of speeding cars

He cleans up his city

He is full of noise and quietness

He will beat the living shit out of you if you fuck up

He would die for a friend or any other being

He loves to read

He eats language for breakfast

He was the one that started the fire

He can take the blame

He smelt death

He bashed his head on four nails on a locked door to say peace nightly

He danced to the punk scene for inspiration

He has a heavy lord

He melts like burnt buffalo

He is new year’s special

He laughed at serious love

He created a symphony with blood and semen

He was taught

He left suddenly and unexpectedly

He never gave the tape to each one

He chained her down

He floated

He became your memory

He carved the orange tree

He thought of a new ism in his itis

He is an important witness

 

 

© 1999 David Greg Harth

99.05.18:02:09:49@296NYC