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Censer Of My Mind

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The censer of my mind’s ego swings slow like a pendulum’s liturgy
of the grotesque with a psalm of the throat in bass notes neath the
cowling of my obsession, choking the embers of your bones—now
no more marrow to pound in my apothecary beneath the ground
—slow like a pendulum’s liturgy, without script, while ego’s slow,
dark vigil has been kept into the void of oblivion’s nest. 

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