So many ill muses spill here.
Like cranberry juice on a bleach quilt.
Mars and Aphrodite, as patrons frequent here,
and push and love all mightily.

Guessing opposites only attract,
because they have what the other has.
Dour, dirty rovers ruddy with chasing Mars on a ruby Rubicon
attempting the danse macabre,
dancing with dates in their mouths–
choking on data, a theory:
misery loves misery.

Help. They’re slipping down blue barb-wire, the scavenge line.
Blaming, basking in side to side.
The margin is a warm line. It dreams of scalpel.
Eraser, hopeful, leaves just one morsel of milky opal,
a saving space.


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