my old man’s old man was made of porcelain
ripped drunk bag of laughing gas
waistcoat cut with faithful dreams
stuck out like an un-tucked shirt,
the mind a wooden corkscrew.
*
my old man’s old man was made of porcelain
from pointed elbow to pointed stare
experience a blinded truth—
eternal for the sodden preach,
good conscience laughs inside.
*
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