little lustful flurries, your hand on the table and i think --all the fingers soaked, in green-caraway, bought andsold in great, slave-ship, quantity: you receding man; desperate throw-of-yourself into the real, eyes-bluebrackish water against, the real gnatof the conflict sopped-up; find a -- cause -- pink harem bodies in theoreticals, draped around cranium and smoggy… Continue reading poem: byron
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 