One red rizla

Last night it was all quite clear,
the shore had a man shedding from sand, or flesh
and from the tops of his head, and down
to his waist, it was a melting sand and
eyes, their was a drama
of types, to the shore, as that and his back were
linked by hooks– something near
which was his throne made on bone-sand
an enormous seat lined. You walk down
stairs, you walk about one hundred meters
to the garage
where a man uses barks instead
of words, then you laugh a little
whilst getting served, and dreams
make more sense.


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