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Untitled
UNTITLED
must I still entertain you with images?
the block of flats on fire
with my
conflicts
melts into the west
our track turns
into the sun’s
deserts of poverty
a dot,
engulfed by your sky
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Blood
BLOOD
to leave the night's wine untransformed
by your razored arms, undisgusted
periods of life tearing
into your word-unmaking blood
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