a project of skill-less and dead-author labor turned dead-text turned dead-reader, love
affair with space, some cloud to influx information without regard for human eyes. &poetry
Saturday, July 25, 2015
Comely motherlanding with hospital beds. Play the piano for me.
Curls in hair, in fact. Costumed jewelry and twenty odd, Them.
I remember cornered. Concern. Dolled up revenge, red lipstick to onward, Self.
Interest and sense. Be seen. Was alone, allowed. Spying aloud. No doubt. Hit. Ground.
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