i think at this point i am mostly depraved and like a westward moth just barely breathing through the feathery lips, the science of all civilization shall thicken under me. so that i can break and call it a delicate prestige, a privilege of the girls with color-wine bottles hung from their irises, hung from… Continue reading poem: i think at this point
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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 