Tuesday

is this

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is this heart open like a gas chamber a door knocking in the wind..a navy frigate bounding all waters.. the schizo tunnel of love....


in the gravy of soup the batwing culling along the ridge of the overpass. suave as the dock and the bollard artifically pinned to the ground and the woman's frizzy hair and her mouth gaping open..

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this time she asks is it two three? legs and arms cartwheeling over the lake's surface


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