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Palm Mute Guitars

Mugwort lined joints sit on windowsills,

To that somewhere a coffee spills,

Paused art-film stills

Recollection presses on...

Yet is hastedly forgotten

 

There is a contortionist in my bed

Feats of entanglement 

Mutual strangling necks

There is a contortionist in my bed

Her legs glide as a pendulum

In the jutted sand of our knees interlocked

My perception of time is distraught

 

In the brutalist studio pretentious bodys roam,

but all are sentient, percieving, and inviting.

We have but now just entered the affairs,

I grasp onto stares

Like those tears, and gashes beneath our eyes

Oh what it is to lie upon the steepened mattress

with all of your amassed auras, as a collective being.

Jezebelle is feeding; Hookah smoke rises.




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