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thy crotchola in the dark

misty small hours:

curly rain

and herb-lore

and glad tidings

and quieter meals.

i appraise the marsh of it,

my sovereign.

 

my earth’s nullity, her earth’s mars’s hell.

  

i don’t need to be right, i just need

to make a big deal out of rejection.

like metal on metal but no sparks.

her flouncing powerful asexual untertones,

i the scantily clad one-trick-pony squoze

the lower bound silt into elegant tents,

into doable chunks.

 

-what a timeline to be alive-

 

my pain pushes until my vision pulls:

a truckstop toughguy 

although empty as a flute.

as a reaction or choice,

a tactical demon.

 

gosh, what a jejune banger.

dealing only in marginal darlings,

and only fussily takes that nice-nice.

 

i’m young i’m done.

together we might could junk it,

and salvage some novelty from

this thick energy...

no, only in cartoons.

Graveyard of Jizzed-On Stuff

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