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| atrophy annie bends, to stoop, to pick up a flower. for her hair the trees wave and the stars, they should sparkle, but atrophy reaches her every half-hour. the trees shook, their denizens free. she faded into luxury. curls of ribbons will part her delight, and she pulls and she steals through the dawn. Fingering the wall at night, she stumbles on her secrets. Thinking she might feel too far, she wakes through the window and sleeps on the lawn. atrophy annie, remembers her name, and summons a fig leaf to cover her shame, and she bends, and she stoops, and she supports our troops. | | |
| Strange brew -- kill whats inside of you.
Shes a witch of trouble in electric blue, In her own mad mind shes in love with you. With you. Now what you gonna do? Strange brew -- kill whats inside of you.
Shes some kind of demon messing in the glue. If you don't watch out it'll stick to you. To you. What kind of fool are you? Strange brew -- kill whats inside of you.
On a boat in the middle of a raging sea, She would make a scene for it all to be Ignored. And wouldnt you be bored? Strange brew -- kill whats inside of you.
Strange brew, strange brew, strange brew, strange brew. Strange brew -- kill whats inside of you. | | |
| your empty salad sandshake touched me. with teary eyes and whispers of unhearable longings {I stretch} I tried to trample, tried to sample three shades of regret.
salt shaker, moon breaker, I keep all my seams intact and slightly stitchy, cold fingers growing itchy with black reminders, fervor for failure, touched atrophy tasted delight with lemon cream boring out what lay between,
those sheets of paper plastic. Fat, and happy figures of the cardboard cutout universe. Shadows on the wall dance and flicker, ever-bicker, never touch the
morning liquor, never touch to see the fall, maybe they should have it all, if only they could form the taste, salivate in their disgrace, and walkabout with dusty face. Empty-headed headaches, feeling like a pulse of
arbitrary and flavorless brain solutions. Saline dreams, tie me up with rubber tubing. Stick a feather into my arm, drain me of my sticky ichor. Two to breathe and I'll take that lost chance. Touch absurd and your fingers will stick, for a week or three.
(and) Tell me, would you bleed for me? {I retch} It's taken, soft lime taste-ing, mind arrange and thought-erasing paint-y, please-y, never-tease-me torturings of stitches
I have long outgrown. And long I played, sticky-fingered, into your hands. Into your heart. Into your arms. Push me away, please! I cannot take the luxury, your company. The sidelong sighs and lost goodbyes.
Stretch marks whisper to my eyes, and I squint to my past. I bite lips, my own this time, and savor reason. Turtle doublets echo laughter, screaming that the rhyme come after.
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| to be what God made you, you have to let go of what you have made yourself. don't be a builder.
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| empty endings, twisted misbegivings.
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