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Rated: · Poetry · Other · #1485589
it's a poem
He has a silo-throat
that's tough and stopped
up. The believeing of
the soft, warm self-

righteous speech kisses
and bruises the eyeing
of the car keys. Cut
here. Those sharp rocks have

been buried in their own
important ruins. These gods
bite, curve, and haven't heads.
Pur! The cat it gray.
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