consolation prizefighter

practised in a heroin loft crackhouse written on the muddust moon and then we'll all be calling rain scores and shouting the highlights up to god watching secret methods of barometers and counting on our hands calculations too obtuse for textbooks so left out and i'll be missing the old smiles but building new ones you know the way- math and wood like the geometry of a heart.

2003-12-23 | 11:54 a.m.
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