a certain
seems predestined
to cast a pall
in waves of
humming static
fat black flies
feasting happily
upon the rotten
fruits of yesterday’s
paltry harvest
rumbling loudly
a chainsaw of
tearing through
the stagnation of
retched dreamshit
icicles of filth
hanging heavily
from turgid fantasy
obscuring absentia
in a mirage of
broken fangs
severing through
the umbilical
between these

three times three
i mutter my love
the only thing
i know is real

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