now we’re here thing
There is no god left for god to impress. At night I grow in my arm an arm for my son. My dream lasts for three days. An animal forgetting to drink. A perfect stick crying itself white in a hell of dog heads. Sex doesn’t know what this poem is about. Eating is a shape death knows to eat around. Heaven only looks abandoned. Imagine a shooting range. Not that one.
kingsoftrain 
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