Scraping the last of gut off it all
The seasons are beautiful still.
A bypass from a heaven sent leech
I thank your unkindness
For this last
Toilet song of fallen green sadness
;By her feet, it lands, without a fall of lip skin in remark,
I’d jar my tears and snot but I’m stuck in morning
To allow another sense of drop would build you another void
To hollow out the knives and dildos of your voice
That will attempt revisited time but be found soggy and sag in some fat urethra
And scrape the last of ribcage,
The armor of it all is play written and winter.
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