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The Crying Stoat

Your disgusting throat
and my burning juice that
won’t stop flickering like a lousy map.

 

Snap, snap, my bottle-clasp claps
in my support. Masks and cigs
amongst all the cluttered cans of
epiphany morons.

 

Cut me open as the moons construe
into one: gliding amongst the mountains,
the commitments, my sun. The
fairy facades of clueless barbarians; a total war!

 

Mister—I have one of you! And every
single knot I cry carries onto two——
signs, two signs, my frisky eye and pitchers of scarlet wine
empowers my Eagle throat as I devour the mystic stoat.




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