Latvian PangramNicole Mauro
O heart of no hemo- globin gone red to pink -pale to bilirubin, the formaldehydes of the medical are museuming your bile -swallow in jars. Looks like you fell into that tankard of pig fetal, that the dust of boutonnieres on the mortician’s lapel really is legional. Their button-holes are French, are oblate, will receive decapitated babies breath, the spores of filtrate. O lethal I’m on knees, the carnations are dead, lay me out like a slut and place a cherry south—I want to feel knot, be undone by a hem. If only I had my hymen back, if only the lone viscera were a badge I could peel off in tact I could eat glass, and it wouldn’t hurt me, I could necrophile the emote, perforate the crisp- white quiet with a single bloom to the lab-coat.
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