my trip to norway
in some ways was fulfilling
considering the ice cream social
with the bukake themed women.
The hybrid dreams torn out of a magazine
massage my scalp and keep it warm
the finger of dread, my heart full of scorn.
The fjords call my name,
like drunken nuns calling upon the primal will.
I lead a group of ducklings
to their frigid death,
their dowries and eggs long will I have kept.
I toast Satan in Stockholm,
and travel home, to Connecticut.
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