Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Motras Lanotra

The colors from my wrist have been lost. It was meant to be fixed and saved just like the first. A celebratory weekend, only to start with a negative income the next day. A dream that was about to blossom into beauty and freedom; gone.

Turn kites into a currency. Feed the kids full of teeth. Don't look but the barmaid is watching you sulk your feet. Bodied. Bodied. Bodied. Nothing new when the last of the fur coats are in. Just write about an embryo, the stages of life that it has missed.

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