Installation for a Sick BodyJasper Bernes
The sky is one small side of finally Fatter chances hope evacuates, slow as any Big unhappy river ushered down the aisle On a bobsled of scabbed elbows & dead zone. At the preyground: historical carousels, bruising Where tremendous & fell childforms upend The byproducts of soft war: O hard sell. All my fissibles missing, all my bends on the mend. Door: be for these concerned that whoreson horizon Crazy with sleepless, puckered zeros. Dopamine, do open. Do be the fallow Hour plumped to one last thing. I’ll cut off my arms to fit—I’ll starve my heroes. I’ll suffer your serums, your x which, from inside in, exerts its sting.
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