Election Special, A Cuckoo

A local walks a dog that smells of Kouros. The
virtual map of the country is splenetic with
nudges, a 70% payout that can't be exchanged
for features. It's like the conference of future
cosmetics has been abandoned for the
sales' reps to take until Monday to basket-up
nest-eggs of birds-of-prey - not to eat or sell
but to lick the speckled-shells of testosterone.
A text-messsage pings with clarity through the musk
of white static : I just want to go to sleep & wake
up & pretend everything is going to be alrigh
t. Okay
then. Let's wait for someone to pitch morphine laces
on the NHS. And as it works watch the radio cuckoo
                                                             your dreams


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