Juggernaut Specials
The Perfume River
Sickly yellow in umbral breeze smokes,
The smell of disgorged tainted rust,
Flame rips lungs from oxygen, faces from recognition,
Gleaming entropy through decaying eyes,
Whimpers not howls, gasping shade, not fury,
Slowly, swollen, sour sweetly, grimly we go, grimly,
Down the perfume river.
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Published by Patrick Cann
Patrick Cann calls himself the Dr Frankenstein of poetry, for he adores piecing together parts of dessicated flesh to create life. A self-proclaimed Canadian frost hobbit, Mr Cann has been writing poetry for over twenty-five years now. He believes his art to be an act of shamanism, and thus, he feels it's an experience of ecstasy and anguish.
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