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Deck the Halls With Boughs of Folly 
The Poetic Disquietude of Michael Dec

Whispering Women

a point on the meat tangent must hear 

my water to grow 

A handful of formless branches

the words you forgot in a motionless instant

(don't waste ammo,  she'll be back) (maybe)

When you're a crow all day,

see the shiny time stand still 

But we can do nothing 

How did our whispering slap us silly?

Did we always like sloppy geometry?

As a consequence of predictability, 

you're vague,  muffled explosions in my heart 

Plaintive Voices 

a whistling telegraph evaporates

Jesus just crawled up my smelly spine and

now there's no room, you hesitate, corn chowder 

All the world's clutter up against my shutters 

the gates are closing 

I beg of you don't leave me don't not leave

me alone the tintinabulation

If you read this during the equinox I'll kiss you where

you'll never forget

You'll say to them "he kissed me there"

Anytime you want, I'll kiss you where

it beats loneliness 


A modern execution of a happy little TV set 

in the brain cell,  got no response, a rubber road

which leads to the electric chair, har har 

He kicked the coffin into the chip bag 

His  1930s surging through his body 

so daintily, yet strictly porcine jaws

surging through his body

A happy hangman said she was 

officially a "widower" again, enraging 

the electrician surging through the gallows 

the gallons of electrostatic blood amplified 

as I cringe in my own dreams 

Some execute a 1930s TV but I 

cringe at my own dreams

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