Em Bezzelers

The Lunch.

Love is a hunch

back notre


Beckons for a reckoning

but falls, still falls

riven with enthralls

as way into epiphanies.

My undressed pail

as a belly of whale


in and out of your frame —

Lovely dementia

grafts of holy cabbage onto

logic of habits

and treasuries its rabbits

hopping out,

Of the body in my head

driven by


rolled up in foil

overseen by

terrifying goyles

love is an insurrection

scaling to the middle

loopy and frightening.

Wakes a gamble

with trust

and hanging on the line

spooked by chance

sparks an avalanche

love for anything

ponder wander plunder

oh bait. Tease me off

madness gull goes tree ways

and free ways

blinded by dick tat

the grift is impatient

sleepy progress

riddles in a riot of



lures staggering

holy cures. Shaking out

forest where they burn

commissions interrogated weavers

emboldening fevers.

Bad dads and screaming moms.

A bloody minded rectitude

pins sun to its violence

as violets on a risen moon

avenge the regolith,

careen like duckets.

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