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The End

Lucas Dantas Leite

Twin flames on twin matchsticks, lit by the same hand.
Unruly, unjust! A bespeckled pink man.
His throne, in his cage, with his tumor he lies brave.
Sprawled across and empty floor, looks across, brick wall.
No window, no light, no hope for a plea for
insanity, for reward, for the mercy of a flea.


Twin fetuses in jars, small and afraid.
Fading reluctantly. No hope for a change.
He wanders and sinks, breathless and dazed;
he knows he is forsaken, in the eyes of bespeckle.
Leave me to my days, he said with his freckles
dancing and living and dropping like fleas.

Sitting on lazy nets.
An empty pot is filled.
Nothing but nettles and
tricks and a dove and
a careful blue radio
with frequencies he cannot hear.


Pink in their pretty straws,
always and daring.
Pink in their pretty straw
hats of rice-paper
farmers of everything gone,
but a segment of home.


Glimmers of sun in the
daisies and dreadlocks

of sailors and singers
living on rafters
and singing to ocean
top mountain top holy
figure in yellow mist
not quite a traitor but
lying pretty.
As always.


Holy images
of flesh-ridden axes
and bull-ridden axels
alone in the foregone
taunted by silly string
flesh blue or cold
or purple and mourning
and coaxing till crying.

Twin persons, one man!
Created by the same hand!
Singing for freedom!
Living to death
         death’s door, death’s chimney!
What more but a skinny
tall man in a suit?

You are blood and soot.
Like rag under foot.
Like the vagabond never wandered,
or the soul which is never lost.

Consummate me with your presence,
live through my empty malfeasance.
I am god, I am yours.

I am wholeheartedly,

Twin fleas in a chamber
and the barren remainder
of a colorful, fantastical
hollow pink stranger.

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