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March 7, 2024 / barton smock

first ohio machine

Do not love me. Wear, suddenly, clothes. Restore on a lake of ice the groundhog to its ghost. Moan my fingerprint through a drughouse stork. Flee the young museum or the youngest that turns you on. Eventually there will be a church and your balls will drop. It’s a joke, of course. Not quite insect art. But def a tornado’s bones. 

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