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■ I know what you're thinking, father
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I don’t have to spent any more hot words
from the sticking edges of thoughts the crickets of mind are whistling falling inside the birds are quietly freezing through the pockets forsaken is the safety belt the unshaved smell of the aggressive after I wrote translated meat into a manual of onetime useful senses that I did expose at the museum of science on the crossed vault in this car is an empty place for retouched caresses tears of forgiving are running the Olympic marathon for hiding into no destination beneath the wheels outside the luck this expression of stoned heart that doubles me from the back looking glass with my aorta prematurely cutted for cowardliness doesn’t show me fitting anyhow is irritating me this likeliness with Venus from Milo it doesn’t pull me out of my narrow prison-ribs of this hope in well so inadequate warmed when days are passing necked of celebration new laws voted allow so clean madness unclothed beings parading victorious on the pavement still behind remains the woman with her dreams and old-fashioned matches burning pyre of rhymes in the postmodernist poetry into the city where dwellers are the protocolar statues communicating only the political diplomacy correctness running out seldom from the boundaries of the silent sense or heart into that winter with gates of exile under any circumstance I’m waiting. to burn. inside or out my heart
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