Buzz clippers
resonate louder,
deeper than bombs,
and sharper than lonesome brick walls
jutting my knee caps.
Thank god, somebody did.
my pen broke; it stuttered
blots and blobs over thin greens,
continuous exhales under blue-black splatter.
There is just this one thing—
my sinkholes are eyes.
There is just
—invariably—
there is just this one thing,
just these few things
I never liked about you, Sparrow.
Luxembourg,
I need a couch, to avoid the raid.
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