in a small boy's voice
steam hisses through the furnace and rosy hued night
fills more space than the volume of these ventricles
mornings are filled with hard wood floors
how much wood could a would chuck
hurled planes of stillness under ass
she said, "the first line of my novel is the best.
i am in love with it." it's ok. it reads,
"my ass hurts. i mean it. it aches."
copied. copycat. plagiarism. a plague of words
will rot through this flesh and ooze out
times new roman script
monitored by beeping blinking green on black
colors change with each hour and i look forward to mauve.
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