imagine being, cockroach, in the truck cab, they sayjump u jump, they say riot u riot. white-ass white-outtundra of the far out, you can drive and drive anddrive out here, son. can't sell out if you never blazed out,never proclaimed godhood or artistry. the radio hasbloody teeth, girls still like sucking nubs. the men inthe… Continue reading poem: post-grunge
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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 