A Walk Through

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Enter the whiplash brigade pornographic
display shifting vibrations
in the miracle of thought. Reckless shade,
shadow spilled, the fumes siphoned through
fingertips. Sensing tumult in the opening
and closing identity crisis of world wrecking
proportions. So what is my place in this?
My place in this spells disaster
with a machete and utters a shiteating grin,
boring deep in cold rock wth the fury
of tongues bitten in hatred.
Covered shag emerging from paternity
with a lisp in its stare. I can’t seem
to break my way out of the scream,
but when the sidewalks flutter
                               I flutter with them.

-r. miller

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