| This afternoon awakes into a soft breaking Dry clay crumbling The tide washes my bones into a breath Into dead Air. |
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| The word sits cross-legged on the pillow Blue collared and foreign at 4 am I ask you how something so honest Can be so unnecessary I am really asking myself and I don't think you heard me anyhow Twisting in the phantom sheets, I face you and find
I already know the answer.
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| Return to the redundancy The redundancy The small Possibilities like tiny gears Turned around in the smell of gasoline Return to Night fog, a room sunken like a corpse Pitted into dark sockets Wrenched into the
Redundancy scowls over my shoulders A pipe dream like fingers Across this day The world is burnt and gasping Quiet but for the spinning of my thoughts.
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| tonight thunders through sulfur and flame we wrap the world tightly like a blanket waiting for the sky to fall the sound romances the dark like quiet dusk and tables on the sand we cower and laugh at the fear of unknown beauty dying nearly every moment it arrives. happy 4th of july |
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| The dusk is as heavy as bricks and Tonight the red roofs spill gallantly across suburbia Those who dedicate novels to loved ones still die and All the scurf of the world floats silently As my tongue spits frost.
Veneer is The word.
A thin cover of intention across Painted fingernails Sand Purple fields filled with sun.
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