on the park bench she has nothing of sacred otherness, ripping her face offthere is just, mine. cigarette draw - like i do in dreams - saying, hmmmfifteen pages into gravity’s rainbow i had to reddit thread tounderstand a monster on the page, i can’t stand that sort of referencial minutia; if theText cant hold… Continue reading poem: monologue
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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 