Is there a voice for this swan's itch? A voice
Not afraid of death by a thousand cuts, a pox, scratch that,
A vox that dares to unhorse the emperor?
Thought not, tied up. This is the end of the line.
Lay my body down and then stand
Dug in and ask the original question as outlier and
It begins to itch likes radials
Like things in your nose from a toilet seat
Huge WG party, Leipzig, and
Hold up there while the itch catches up.
Scratchy or not, this is a little black animal,
Past angst washed up and not the revolution
In excretion that has been de-eulogized
So fitfully in each small trapped cell, irregular
In size, and where many were clustered, filled
With viscous, and have been unpunished.
Above here the dermis sprouts impulses
Which drop a nicotine stain though
It is probably tar from whose pits, later, you know,
Each impulse set out on a lamp stand.
Swans the multi-tool. Pain in occiput. Twenty-two
Hours later vielleicht. Too many survive
To play the game that way, mutually assured destruction
Of left and right hands but they know
There are swans aswarming, what each other
Are adoing: a head-game that
Stays with it because it likes to fight. Pods of
Oh yeah. The rite of hot water disputes
Nobodys got a neighborhood
Bring back whatfuck but wrap things
Fringe on a tiny cowboy hat with some software logo
Constant invasion since two cents.
Embattled splitster seated. Image file of the heist
Because there is supposed to have been a theft
Witnesses diverging but so many and more the sense of loss
Than any clear idea of what was lost, just it. Another
Fold has other pulls old feels old buildings
A narrative it that swannily glides before us
Just out of reach. A thirty-three of
My forty-five saves time.
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