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Dreams of this world
November 3, 2011
Acrid smells peel my fingertips and curl around my face. Like bubblegum
Like crimson glory.
Humble sophistication, eyes closed. It’s dead, right?
Black rolls under me
A melancholy song, wailing outside from inside
Stiff like hot ironed soap – rumbling from far off machines.
Mellow flickers of stifled sludge
Crunch say my bones. Scissors should cut the glaring buzz.
A banner of white noise, waving
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