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February 28, 2017 / barton smock

breaks

my seven year old son keeps putting his hands in his diaper. evangelist.

worry is no teacher. birth no language and mouth no age.  I tell you there is a comedy passed among the lower whites and I’ve heard them boast of taking blood’s coffin to the grave.  I moonwalk in a poem about violence.  am abused by animals for buying local

from the claustrophobe
her neglected

astronauts

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