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Literature Text
feel here, in the musty hollows of my ribs. things
will drop like fleas from a stray, splatter
fleshy to your feet, open
wet, entitled infant mouths. push
past the squick, these
pustules of juicy larvae -- beneath,
bones crumble like rotted cheese.
will drop like fleas from a stray, splatter
fleshy to your feet, open
wet, entitled infant mouths. push
past the squick, these
pustules of juicy larvae -- beneath,
bones crumble like rotted cheese.
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Gosh I write a lot of rubbish but I can never resist the urge to put it here because I am a prat.
© 2013 - 2024 fieldmouse
Comments5
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This poem makes me feel sad and/or uncomfortable. Is that on purpose?