The processional of pain
in the artifice of your heaving
chest. Your mouth over the porcelain
god, your putrid and
chunky
offering
a sick and rejected
nutrition
of your earnings: a liquid
pyramid
of decayed
process. I would get you clean
baby, if only I knew how. I did
my best to reach into
your mouth
to pull out the thing
eating out your guts
but lost my hand
in the process.
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welcome to the waste-bin.
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