...split bits of saints and wires hang over

head, spilt from the cracks of rust

 

of lust. The hallway hasexplainswine,

contains Locke in Stockings and you,

smocking ness in the sick

 

made from butterfly soup cooked

under hours and

hours and minutes and seconds—

greeting the difference between the pretention and

proliferate of the real as a matter of purpose.

 

And then...

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