RANDOM I  

By David Eide  

Buried deep in the paucity of things, obsession. A sickness. A glut of sweet smelling flowers an old woman collects around her angry face. She was witness to the planning of perverse campaigns. Armies are flying from the wasted crowds; bitterness runs from the expression of bitterness; bitterness is the great demand of things. Dispersions occur. Passionate arugments about who really loves the good. The arguments lose compassion for the lost; the wounded flow like rivers of ancient insects into the bowels of the city.


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