I’m sorry for

Missing the seat,

When I vomited

Earlier in the

Gas tank lightning

Protesting the beauty

Of what now

Is just all

Of it just

The whole goddamn

Way Shit is

Now that I

Wish I were

Able to finish

My thoughts to

Simply speak, softly.

Stir fry sauce

Moldy maggett hunger

Desperation so much

That yummy apparently.

I’ve got a sigh and a soft reflective fuck that is the box my emotions were stored in. Suffocate the remaining any of that which left there has been as always. The poet named punk music the poet make way for a poet, once. Applaud his second hand outfit. Outmoded jade to being liked.

The poet stabs the closest to him because they were mocking him. As a poet my job is to not spell it out in cheap dry concrete wheel burrow stirs of a slurpy shit stain tongue flutter.

 Flutter is retired now
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