The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive


her eyes fall through her eyes, a thing is lashed
you find yourself hysteric, is she watching me
or something else next to the shuddered prims
so gaze against her gaze, nothing is ever lost
and play within her plays, whatever might be found
this might seemed worried, her mouth is berthing wide
no matter what bleak hardness or good however grace
or where the neural networks might be stashed
her eyes, uncanny, swollen, gaze across a sea
you're always swollen, harboring her whims
is clearly thing your flesh has neatly tossed
sodden emptied, sallow, on unhallowed ground
you fear the world, there's no thing more inside
no more than eyes cut through the hollow face

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