Locked

I’m slow. So slow. No beat. No sound.
A brand, ground into a rotten truck.
Slow through the reeds, each brush
Waving through bloody tips,
No skin, so slow, every step pain,
A blotchy stain, gained from the Popper.
To the truck, open the door,
Slow to search, and flash the engine,
To go slow, still slow. No round
Trip from the loose suit,
A root gone rotten, choosing
To meet the Popper.
Still slow, still no beat,
My souls rolling, blowing,
Twirling in a faceless skull.
Fingers, toes, popping in and out,
Sockets swollen,
Ligaments stretched,
A section soaked, fetched,
From the people provided,
By the Popper.
Onto the side, a rip, a ride
In the mountains, no meat, no beat,
To spare on the way down,
To see the Popper.
Arms swung, and rung,
The bells of lengthy stilts,
Lashing the fallen melody,
Of the Popper.
No pillows between, no
Cushion to wing, along
The rippled back.
Of the Popper.
Stripped, skin, loose clocks,
A merry-go-round of time
Lost to the Popper.
Brought by the slow, slow, slow, slow, slow, slow, slow, slow–



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