Point Of A Program

I am the product of tiers ,jammed,/by pallets and rhythmic fingers./The eyes slowly roll,in sockets between temples,/lying in Summer grass/ in a Summer of pain./I have yet to begin,/no chance of victory,/I eat slop on tin plates ,/feel the pinprick of my sin,/I can watch death envelop the whole circuit. In immediate boxes, fighting off fever, wave after wave shakes the torso to the waist./ Coy, moody, wax on the face,/ I search for more,/ in the way of buzz bombs,/more stimulants that congest. In the light of the program sketched above,/ I gain powers: /to turn as I whirl, I will stifle my drift. /If it offered more, I’d be endangered, /take up chain smoking over leathery hips.

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