I Am Thy Father’s SpiritDavid Laskowski
Boiling in his own traitorous soil, but easily forgotten. Like the armor of the mythopoetic – idle tide of umber. So thirsty he drank his own urine. So reliant he walked the ten miles to school. He removed his own kidney, selling it on E-bay. But whom, he says, is he to say his life was hard? If bones from the prison houses don’t punish. The words that rank with a nebulous aura, so like the hairs of a sea’s rageful howl. List, list, O list! List coriaceous in its orange, codpiece of burn- ing moss, both wetter than jaundice but dryer. Gases of a most strange, foul, and unnatural resource. Byron credits India’s dollar a day. Same shit, same price, the cellular saris which enrapture this fear. Tingling comes. Ghosts do not exist, except in the movies.
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