We
are weeds; we spurt up
untrimmed,
and flecked by wild sun.
Planted
by happenstance,
by
blind, buffy hand of chance.
Awaiting
days of grime and glue
then
nights of sex and seppuku
and
splashed seeds; I kiss luck,
a
whimsical simpleton,
I
bless the buffy hand of chance
that
shakes the dice, that shapes our dance
in
joyful ugliness askew,
aflare
and chasing seppuku
through
dank deeds, buttercup
seditions
with viscous ends.
The dice
still crack their vicious dance,
and
siren crunching, blind romance
deludes
me so I fail to see
my
happiness when I was free:
When
I was free, aflame, askew,
awaiting
sex and seppuku.
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