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that son of a bitch, my heart,
smashed in the street
like a halloween pumpkin,
tire tracks arrowing through it,
stray cats from the orchard
consult the sodden debris,
so now everything that occurs
occurs at point-blank range,
the cold coffee of fate,
my thoughts engulfed in smoke,
as if by order of the hemophilic king
of some unfortunate kingdom,
fists of rain hammer on the glass
while inside the baby screams
and i gather whatever will burn.
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