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Sick of the casket scene,
I’m scheming methods of dispersal.
Consider this a refusal to yield
to the clumsy wheel of the era.
Real talk. My desire to fuck
wears a chalk headdress
and addresses me formally.
Formations of diaphanous compost
compose the space twixt my eyes,
unattended fears and willful blindness
undressing in a meteor rain.
It’s the same on both sides.
Flow ride. Guided tinsel. Travesty.
Hashtags rotting inside of their cells.

-r. miller

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