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Cook (2)

Sarah Cook

Poem in response to the last open mic at Nocturnem,
five lines of which were composed during the event

after A.P. & for kef


zoro was a fuckface w/o a coffin, without a mother
becoming the nemesis of the single roll
zoro was a knuckle eater, zoro was a houndstooth jacket minus lust
zoro was a merciless tv screen, the incarnation of falling teeth, the separation
of egg from non-egg, zoro was my best friend, but the female version probably
the invention of hell spent every Saturday night at zoro’s house
sometimes i wish zoro weren’t so smug faced or endeavoring to be like
Johnny Carson
zoro wore a mustache and took it off before bed, zoro invented taking off,
thought about nighttime but only in relapse, said “moon” when he meant buffer zone
zoro made the floor of his guest room into the book cover
for Fifty Shades of Grey and got a tattoo in commemoration
zoro once flooded my basement by saying “syndrome” over and over
omg it wasn’t even a poem, it was Zoro On Ice and we melted
all over our prospects of planting hats in the soil
and on our heads, zoro didn’t even know what “witness” meant
zoro built a tall tower of whiskey and sank my loneliness in interjections
zoro built a syndicated version of nausea without asking for the time, stacking
piles and piles of carpet until the carpet couldn’t see itself
zoro had feet but only because people refused his gratitude
zoro was oh ya, zoro was a deserted butthead, carpet doesn’t even have eyes
and neither does zoro my little almost epsilon of doom


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