blood mud mixed up child, mouth stitched with tissue letters, lit easily, flaming vocabulary, floating embered pieces like october outside, soon a frozen ground, dead earth.
these cold tissues, a restaurant plate presented for an inflated fee, like Facebook posts, positioned to stir kindred connections, "look at me! look at me! look at me! I AM!"
Ginsberg almost told the Truth when truth needed to be told. now it doesn't exist, melted snow, flaking about, twisted about, pretty boys, guilty boys, wearing skirts and painted nails. child likened. stolen boys.
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