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Nothing. Spineless. Amorphous. Divided.
Lack of manners. Lack of patient silence
Mother, O, what now?. Drown in the pool of your own disarray.
I will hang from the mental floss in the utmost basement
Actors. And the stage. And the culture.
And the sociophobic cesspool in which I mumble.
With no role at all



****

Nothing to write today except:
"Nothing to write today"

Nothing to write today except:

"Nothing to write today except:
Nothing to write today"

***

Oh, what do you expect
you dry blood stained sole of my shoe
I turn the other cheek
And walk over one side of my face
A plain plane of blunder
blunder
blunder

After a while I approach a babbling park
Spittle makes the babies heads grow in width

***

ON FIRST LOOKING INTO MORRISON'S INCANTATIONS

a grimacing melancholy severs my synapses when I think
of all the horses drowned in the muddy currents of my
blind under-mind. Womb, womb, womb, to wear your soft sanctuary
on the face like a glove, to burn the green dead groins of silence,
to decapitate the lords and judges, and go to swamps and azures and wests

and into so on ,ultimately procrastinating into whipping of eyes

All of this was mentioned before and heard and unheard by the
Irony's mask as old as the murderer's
 
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