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January 17, 2026 / barton smock

looking through a cigarette in the stomach of god

I was too young for the dead frogs of my grandfather and too young in front of my grandmother to miss howling with my bare feet them same frogs away from sound. Talk however you want. An angel wakes up in an angel. My son’s body is always awake. I have what you have. A smoke machine from the weapons maker of Eden. The song I kill myself to isn’t clear. Test city horses free of disease renew their deafness in the eggshell sea. Cops don’t have nightmares.

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