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April 18, 2023 / barton smock

against poems

Memory only eats itself because it remembers food. Watching is a small room that models its god on being seen. I spit teeth into a fishbowl and the child stays asleep until I run out of children. A tire swing, then a whale, then what. Language is a nightmare. Softcore. Ghostgold. Angels untwisting in silent bread.    

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