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First time starting.
First poem written.

let's share our firsts.
Will give criticism in a sec. Here’s mine (1/2)
I am not particularly knowledgeable about how to critique poetry; I am more of a “I know what I like” kind of guy. However, this poem does not make me cringe, which is more than what I can say for most poems I read in these critique threads. You have nice repetitions of sounds; it gets to the point, it’s not histrionic, it didn’t move me but the fact that I didn’t cringe even though it was emotional is a pretty big victory as far as writing poetry goes.

I don't love the punctuation or capitalization in this. I feel like you can take out the commas. All of them, except the one in the middle of the last line obviously and maybe the one after "ascent". The line breaks and the capital letters break the lines up just fine. I could do without the colon after "Entranced" for the same reason. The full stop happens on its own by making a new line and the ideas are still connected. I don't see a reason to capitalize "Suppressed" or "Intertwined"

The imagery generally works, This is a little rough but much better than the work in these threads where people try to make something really grandiose and purple, so good first effort.
Wakie wakie,
little flakie.
You tried to fuck me
now its time to die.

This first part is pretty tight. I would change "raid" to something else though, it's a little much for the tone of the rest of the poem. Also "hunched by" to "hunched at" . And I hate semicolons, I never think they do what they're intended to do. I would be happier with a new line or a period. There's a big pause after "desk" and it's fine to start a new idea. I dislike the last five lines or so. It comes off as sophomoric. You should be talking about why it's so important to you that you'd rather be "wise" than "smart" if it means turning off your "heart". Making it personal like this will always read better than making a wide sweeping statement.

I extend that to the second post, down to "be with the birds". I'd challenge you to find a better visual metaphor than birds flying, I guess. It's just so played out for an image for thinking or imagining or something else.

This isn't a bad poem, it just doesn't reveal a lot about the speaker for a poem called "The Words of a Proud Non-Reader"

10/10. Cannot be improved. Have embossed on a wooden plaque and hang in an Applebee's.
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i didnt like yours OP, not sorry either im afraid, but i wish you wont mind
At the level of Yeats
just youuuu
and iiiii
in loooove
Do never as I say
And never as I do
The true words I speak aren't beautiful
And the beautiful ones aren't true
Brown eyed wind ever flowing, following behind
Horns blazing, to allert those of nearing fog
Mourning in passing, smells of rotten meat in bog
Like Death, a Trials of tears, others falling far behind
Sleaves blowing in the wind, till borrowed as mask
Small, and ruptous, it steals silence at mass
The cause of a loud cough in fest, and red in face
I bask in all the greatness I make.
Days beyond numbering have passed by. I lost my count at four hundred and twelve days. I lost my will to count is more accurate. Every trench i scraped into the cement wall become more a countdown to inevitable death and less a tally of days survived. As the world became ravaged by whatever biological weapon the warring Governments dispersed on the masses, I found shelter in this old light house. By day i drive my old but somehow still roadworthy pickup. Ticking off new locations on my road map to scavenge. Gasoline and ammunition for my rifle are not so hard to come by as one might expect. For now. Food and water is tougher. Medicine and drugs are harder still. But I try. Stupidly, knowing that it cannot keep up, i try to scavenge and survive.
By night, well by night I clutch my rifle and cry. The fog rolls in from the dead sea, thick and fast. And with it comes those abominations.....
Those things from the deep.
More than anything to come from this plague, they haunt me the most.
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I wrote this in February. Haven't looked at it since really. As you can tell from it, I was in a dark place and full of self-hate. Not so sure I agree with anything I said, but I did feel those things at the time of writing. Also I had just read J R by William Gaddis for the second time and made a juvenile attempt at emulation. I'm wanting to get back into writing to relieve some stress, so I appreciate any feedback.
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One little hiccup—
just a single string snipped,
how can the the net hold?
Indeterminate colloids of lead
and mercury. Venetian furs
coiled around the slinky of milk
conjures up a speech, varicose
in its trajectory, a mild dilemma
to be solved by Pythagoras and his ilk.
People like us, those woven in another fabric,
piece ourselves together with the gazes of others,
a melange of sentimental curios
cured over the brackish water underneath the bridge
where flags hang and people plummet
to their murky ends, defiled by decision
and stained forever into the cosmic canvas
of a universe folded infinitely: the origami organism,
"Oh thank thee for the raisinettes, Indigo Blue."
He lost his speeding ticket
that he received cross-country
while in West Virginia (mountain mama)—
the cost doubled, and doubled again.
Exponents are sheriff in this lawless town,
where gunslingers play roulette at high noon
for a spot on the highest horse the side of the...
Yes sir, that piece of paper evaporated
details dying with its loss, hi-fi pain, the numbness
totalizing itself beyond state lines, enemy lines,
where the buffalo roam when in Rome,
the pasture ripe, destiny to be manifest
in the passage of parsimonious days
that spend themselves like a withering tycoon
whose home stands as the last bastion of glory,
a pride parabolically plummeting towards curtained hell
behind which sits the greatest wizard of them all:
the judge, fanning his grinning, glint-eyed face
with none other than your golden ticket
not lost but stolen, by the thief we call grandfather—
and so you pay your debt, and say a prayer.
This jailhouse isn't for the faint of heart.
No sir, not at all, not at all.
[queue chorus]
Not sure if I quite like the style but damn that was very relatable. Ouch.
Good luck, anon.
It was raining hard on my windowpane this morning. It pattered for a while, tip-tap-tipping away and melting slowly into my conscious, intruding on my melancholic, dozy absence of thought. It forced me to let out a tumultuous groan. The rains intrusive presence reminded me of the daunting shit id have to deal with today.

Today, like any other, id have to cope with the patronising glances of associates and peers, tacit recognition of a subtle hatred thats been brewing for years. Hatred is too strong a word. Its an exhibition of impolite indifference and contempt. Im too meek and harmless to be truly despised. This sense of self, the very target of their vexation is elusive to me. Im not quite sure what it is. I dont believe I possess a strong identity. Its tenuous, it shifts with the encumbering pallete of seasons, with the beating of piss, the marauding sunlight, under the influence. The only concrete thing is an overly alert conscious that consumes and erodes whatever microcosm of self-worth my tarnished soul clings on to. I dont think theres much left.

I cannot describe in earnest the sense of sheer panic I get when somebody stares me directly in the eye. It confounds every insecurity and biting thought into a brilliant orchestral cacophony of utter loathing.
Literally never tried to write anything that wasn’t a story before. Tell me how bad it is.
too short for the thump—the smaller the diamond, the sharper the cutting

you have the rhyme, but not the meter—it reads quite awkwardly, and even more so when read aloud

poetry is to wine is to fine art—it's hard to be right, but harder to be wrong (as far as your opinion goes)

bad at being good, but also bad at being bad—a C-rate B-rate poem

they say that every work of art is autobiographical so "stretching limitations" seems apt here—brevity has been stretched beyond its limit, to the point of becoming a veil

the words are neither beautiful nor true—let the paradoxes ensue

you have a very natural sense for rhythm, so these each read quite well, however in both, right as the pace begins to crescendo, you abruptly end each poem, causing a kind of poetic blue-balls—sudden finales have their use, not with a bang but a whimper, but by omitting both bang and whimper, you create a bang of deafening silence, which leaves the reader unsettled—also the imagery could be expanded and condensed

I like the phrase 'brown eyed wind,' however you lose me with the rest—it reads in an amorphously garbled and stilted way; redundancies blare, such as "smells of rotten meat/like Death" (meat is dead flesh, so obviously it smells of death (capital D?)); "a Trials of tears" should presumably read *trail of tears;* lastly, the last line is tasteless in a very unclever way

The first three sentences could be easily compacted into one: "I lost count of the days at 412," also, "by whatever biological weapon??" this seems confusingly vague, even for a first person narrator, it implies a sureness in being entirely sure—anyway, everything you include here is known by literally anyone who's read or seen an apocalyptic story (or anyone who's able to simulate a doomsday scenario in their mind)—if you want readers to actually read it, then you have to do something new, or at least execute what you have in a more concise and descriptive way

not unpromising, but you should definitely try to distance yourself from Gaddis—can't stand next to nba players

there's something, something really likable, but it definitely needs refinement
I would say, as a whole, lose some of the adjectives. For finer critique:

>"tumultuous groan", as opposed to "groan"
Tumultuous is too much to chew on in a short sentence. If you take it out, you don't lose anything. In fact, the sentence reads better.
>"Hatred is too strong a word"
You could take this out and combine the previous and following sentence with a comma pair.
>Its tenuous, it shifts with the encumbering pallete of seasons, with the beating of piss, the marauding sunlight, under the influence.
Again, too many adjectives. I see what you're going for, but you can make it more concise and it will be more impactful.
>The only concrete thing is an overly alert conscious that consumes and erodes whatever microcosm of self-worth my tarnished soul clings on to.
It can be better written if the ending is "erodes whatever is left of my self-worth." You can probably find a way to keep "tarnished soul" if you try.
>I cannot describe in earnest the sense of sheer panic I get when somebody stares me directly in the eye.
Great sentence.
>It confounds every insecurity and biting thought into a brilliant orchestral cacophony of utter loathing.
Too adjective heavy. You can make this sentence more impactful by using sharper words. Brilliant and orchestral don't really fit here. Maybe, "It confounds every insecurity and thought into a cacophonous mess of utter loathing."

Hope this helps, it's nice to see something other than poetry posted
Thanks, this is very constructive and helps alot x
first is lost in cyberspace (it was about a baby being born into wet cement who grasps a treebranch with the words of Whitman inscribed on it and pulls himself out), here's my second

Polygon Cathedral/American Poetry

Here, I Am standing
with my body
in Polygon Cathedral.

The mechanical force
of its emptiness Surges
among the cybernetic light
of rigid colored windows
and the unsounding
organ Within me.

Now I Am sitting, Here
my unfurled eyelids
expose the 62—Furiously
counted 1 September—miles
between them and
the pupils, the dark
transparent mounds
that birth and devour
Earthy irises incessantly.

Pixels of borrowed window
seep into the 62
and torment the cloudy
figures There—the Gods of
walking down the stairs
and digging a hole
and finding things
you've never seen
and putting things
you've never seen
into the Ground—
with quick bursts of light.

* * * *

It Is outside, Now
there are friends
to talk to and everything
is green or grey.

I can look at This
animal before me
being American Poetry,
firm and shadowy,
while a harsh
intangible landscape
flickers in my eyes.
A blue adhesive absorbs the room.
Perched on a plaid armchair: a leering goblin,
Across which the nice girl rests.
Pink moths flicker above her.
Snowflakes halo above her.
The goblin’s mosquito eyes inject
The scene and glut themselves till burst.
Two kittens leap around her, teasing,
And the goblin froze in blue.
Eyes like stabbed plums.
Heart like mosquito, after caught on neck.
I love the rhythm, your fun to recite
His fun to recite what?
poem sorry I can't form coherent thoughts
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I write poetry often, but I write tolerable poetry maybe twice per year
the last line is good, however i think you could relay the same message in a more suggestive, poetic way—as of now its good, but too matter-of-fact
A blind man intimating a sculpture
with his hands, fingertips lanterns—
the choir of the deaf screech quietly,
a chord of wheezing fury, happy
that the river's mouth meets its end
like lovers split by a tidal brigade
of duties and debts unpaid.
The painting insinuates itself, an disrobing cloth
feigning modesty, blushing rose—
it whispers a monologue, short and infinite,
praising the sacrality of the profane:
beetle shells crushed into brilliant blue.
And so the movie ends, and the crowd walks out:
that was shit: shout, shout, shout.
Whistling through the trees
With blinding - nay,
Almost impervious speed
Round and the round the woods
Forsooth, with what speed!
Now it is time
To begin with our race
But our dear friend has already finished.

The slayer of sloth
ekes out its living like Dracula's offspring,
a bloodline of broken heirs
who drain the minutes of the day
scrawling tally-marks on the obsidian walls
towards a budgeted end: books half-cooked.
The unknown knowns frown upon arrival,
"I didn't know it was you,"
we say to those whose faces we hardly knew;
try as though you might,
to unjumble the pauses in deafening quiet:
the pasture of anxieties swarmed by predators of time
who watch pots full of ice, yearning for flame.
Yet as the carbon monoxide detector fails,
the spark—any spark—keeps hiding from the seeker
who has forgotten how to yell, "olly-olly-oxen-free!"
The pupil of the storm dilates
and the lazy unite in revolt
against the remains of Sunday,
a week with no end, a slide-rule taped shut
denying the hand an arithmetic of hope
that no crisis can shake, no sight can fight.
And so finally you notice:
I am only become becoming,
all else to be determined
by those authorized to do so,
a bilateral commission of the mind:
a cortex of vexation and relief,
no, no, no, okay, let's keep it brief.
fuck this is good
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Bosnia turned out to be a red herring. The entire trip and investigation was a complete waste of time, the whole six months of it. Buch had a gut feeling he wouldn’t find the Osaka killer there and would have left after one month if he didn’t run into so many bread crumbs that all ended up leading him to dead ends.

So prevalent were these unfruitful leads that they gave the killer six months in the clear. Buch conjured up a possible accomplice the killer had in Bosnia, planting these baits for him, but in the end it was probably his obsession with catching the butcher of seven women and three men that had lead him to seeing gold where none was.

Every possible witness had to be interrogated until his ears bled, every clue examined from each possible angle. If he found a clue in a form of a key, no door would be sparred its insertion. His utter failure in Bosnia had led him to rejoining his partner Chris here, in Finland. Chris has been here for half a year. In their homeland America, they were usually together, hunting Osaka down, but Osaka’s latest murder, that is, the latest one in America I should clear up, left two possible locations as to where the elusive madman might be moving his sickening cyclical operation.

It was suspected Osaka was planning to leave the USA before, but the clues left at his hiding place made it obvious - it was either Bosnia or Finland. As Chris put it, he flipped a coin and called it. One man got Bosnia and the other joined me here for the most nerve-wracking period of my life. The sleepless nights I had, not thinking, but panicking over the situation. I hoped so dearly that it was Bosnia, but alas, just a week after Buch joined us, Osaka made his presence heard.

A dead woman, butchered in ways I don’t want to imagine. But I don’t have to. They called me, three hours ago. Told me to come, to hurry, bring the Americans. I will, I have to it is my duty, but I’ve never seen this sort of savagery brought to our shores. I’ll admit, I found Buch’s obsession with Osaka to be unhealthy, but the second I got the call I felt the same force that consumed Buch starting to consume me as well. I’m just glad I haven’t eaten yet. From what the Americans told me, I don’t want to see Osaka’s work on an empty stomach.

Detective Markku Leskinen let out a stuttering sigh once he realized he had nothing more to add to his journal. He typed today’s journal the slowest, spacing out the keypresses as much as he could, buying him the most time away from facing the horrifying reality that he described on the digital paper.

Osaka was here, not only in his country but his suburb. What a year ago was just a discussion between his coworkers about another American serial killer, has become his job.

He went over the entry, checking for any errors and fixing them but also removing what he wrote near the end about Buch and being obsessed. It seemed rude to him in retrospect and he also didn’t want to face the fact his fate might be similar. After going over it once more, he closed the laptop and slid it underneath his bed. He looked outside, into one of the coldest winters Finland had ever seen.

He dragged himself across the apartment, putting on double socks, boots, a thick snow coat that made him look orange, round and ridiculous. He put on his ushanka hat and before putting on the gloves he called Buch and Chrises hotel. Chris answered, saying he was just on his way out to the scene.

Turns out, Buch talked with the local hospitals the day he got there and gave them a number to call in case any murders show up. Buch knew it happened before either of them and was already on the scene. Markku hung up and both him and Chris drove through same blasting frost on their way there.

Driving to the scene Markku was halted by a line of cars. It wasn’t possible to tell how long the line was, the near horizontal lines of rushing snow masked the viewing distance beautifully. He could only really see the two rear red lights of the car in the front and the few ahead. Everything further was brushed white.

Several minutes too many passed, he couldn’t force himself to sit in uselessness anymore so he decided to walk there. Near instantly all his body parts not covered in thick clothes felt like they were being hit with a deeply frozen fist repeatedly. He closed the door to his car and after few meters of walking his view of the car in the front was clear enough to recognize it.

It was Buch’s rental but Buch was nowhere to be found. Markku looked down and spotted a clear set of messy running tracks leading out of the car and into the blizzard. The door was also opened. Markku slammed it shut and went the direction of the tracks, towards the scene of the crime.

>red herring.
>a complete waste of time
>gut feeling he
> bread crumbs
>p leading him to dead ends
Read more. Stop with the cliches
>t into a brilliant orchestral cacophony of utter loathing.
Dont bite off more than you can chew. Just take your ideas slowly; parse them slowly.
I like this. You need to write every day.

Posting (an) excerpt(s) below
It happened when my aunt took her own life, that my uncle’s estate was re-absorbed into my family’s, because he hadn’t any children, and also he had chosen at some point to trudge out on his own (not doing so bad a job) but he managed to muddy his tracks.
Firstly, it was a frustrating time, because my father had refused to sell the inn off as I had urged him. He kept insisting in his ‘forsaken broth-er’s memory,’ as he said, asking me specifically to pay visits to the inn twice per year and check if the foundation were leaky, or if the workers had mutinied.
This was June. I stopped in Dublin with a light luggage, little more than my cap. I had never set foot on the island before.…
Immediately, and this also is true, I confronted a terrible stench emanating from a fishmarket, where the men had carved apart some finned species of monster I had never seen, and the stench confounded me, briefly, but strongly enough that I cursed my own father and mother. Then I walked along a stone wall. Holding in my hand a crumple of paper, the inn’s address written thereon, I had been dizzied by the fishmarket and had therefore lost my sense of direction, so I stopped in a bleak-looking shop who sold powders and detergents, expecting some shelter from the odor.
I found that the shop’s interior was far worse than the streets; the various cleaning agents only overpowered my senses further, so terribly that my eyes began to water. Inside, as I was forced to linger for a moment, trying to collect myself, I was met by an angry woman, a shopkeep, whom I couldn’t understand, but whose voice raised and warbled until I left.
Then I heard a crude sound, like loud and rough singing. I passed a crowd of American sailors with tears still in my eyes. One of them called me a ‘roody-poo.’ I did not stop to acknowledge or correct him.
In a derelict alleyway, from where I walked by the street, I saw two neglected youths. The eldest was clawing through trash pails, and the youngest, a rather dumb-looking boy, carried with him what appeared to be photography equipment (no doubt stolen).
Then I found the inn. Its façade was worn and all the windows, but one, were shuttered. I took the steps and entered. I spoke with the desk clerk and explained who I was, and that effectively I was the inn’s owner. Of course she had expected me, but still she raised a caution, at which I produced my papers. She introduced herself—noisily, as a Mrs. O’Regirock—then told me the rooms were filled. She suggested she oust one of the guests if I willed to stay the night. I politely declined then asked for a tour.
The old woman led me past the parlor and into the bar. The room was dimmed enough that I was catching my feet on the tables and stools. A few of the glasses I saw were terribly clouded; there were frightful cob-webs, also. The barkeep I would say was asleep where he leant against the wall but, for the shadows covering him, I could not make him out. Where the barroom joined with a wide staircase, there appeared a fat, untidy man stumbling down; he heaved, and under his sloth the steps and the handrail creaked. The old woman led me up, passing him, and onto a dusty landing where a small dresser resided. She took the second flight, but I remained a moment with the dresser to inspect a huddle of framed photos. My late uncle stood with his plain-looking wife, and his clothes were more humble than anything I had worn, but I could not prevent myself from feeling pangs of jealousy—here was a man of my family, my father’s lone brother and my grandfather’s son most assuredly. He shared my blood: and yet, for many years, he was able to live by his own accom-plishments, as I struggle to imagine for myself. He died a sick man, yes: and despite the spoils being shabby they were his.
I followed the desk clerk along. Soon I was unable to hear her old squabbling. Before I had simply not listened, but then my senses were taken by nausea, a despair my uncle’s photos had caused me, so much that I felt deaf. I feared I had forsaken myself; and suddenly the walls and floors pained me; other men had bore all my ceilings; and then I itched to rush out the door.
And then a door creaked. I and the old woman had been walking past the hallway, past the occupied rooms; and a girl in a drab garment stopped her and me, having quiet shut the door. And the desk clerk shouted an order at her. The girl went away, until from lower there came a thud and crashes like glass or a window. The desk clerk then commanded that the young maidservant show me the third and tallest floor, while she would attend to the noise.
When looking at her closely, I noticed that the girl was shapely, healthfully so, desirably so, but that her face showed poor breeding. (Yes, yes, you’re quite right. I will tell you.) She said her name was Klaussa. (Gutterbred little maid.) Then she lead me to the stairs. (Kommst du mit mir, tut tut.) As I followed her and watched, a good deal of my nausea was dispelled. I heard something lower, some commotion; but my mind, also, began to be cleared.
The floor is worse bowed up here, she managed.
Mrs. O’Regirock told me, I said.
You are the owner, she said.
No, I said, my family are the owners.
You are Kolya’s rich nephew, she said.
I am, I said, but I am not so rich on my own; you knew him.
He stayed here when he came to the city, she said, he stayed in his room.
Which room is his, I said.
It is in use now, she said, we let guests have it once he was passed; if that’s not your wish then we shall restore it.
Might I see the room, I said.
Ofc, she said.
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Sea of Red
This was actually the first poem I wrote, so
watch more chris marker
what it was so good
When the wind sends
the voice of someone
this far south, I think
there must be words
in it worth listening to,
but the open windows
make the curtains dance
and slap against the wall
breaking apart any calm
hushed sounds they carried,
and left are the angels’ cries,
the rumble of crowds
and heavy weighted airplanes,
but to confess a second
I thought of you down there
the moment you stepped
under a lamp, and your hair
shone as if you blocked sunrise
in a photograph, or something
behind you exploded, holes
ripped from the buildings
and the road, and you thrown
forward into my arms, helpless.
I love you.
All in all, well written. The first few sentences and the last parts were my only real disagreements, but you did a great job in getting the tone of your piece down. Here's my line by line.

>A few of the glasses I saw were terribly clouded; there were frightful cob-webs, also.
Cobwebs is an extra clause you don't need since the reader is already imagining your sepia world. Let them fill in the blanks that you don't.
>My late uncle stood with his plain-looking wife, and his clothes were more humble than anything I had worn, but I could not prevent myself from feeling pangs of jealousy—here was a man of my family, my father’s lone brother and my grandfather’s son most assuredly. He shared my blood: and yet, for many years, he was able to live by his own accom-plishments, as I struggle to imagine for myself. He died a sick man, yes: and despite the spoils being shabby they were his.
Nice. I wouldn't use spoils here, though, or have it as "accom-plishments" with the odd dash. Spoils makes it sound like the uncle is an outlaw.
>I followed the desk clerk along.
What happened to the old woman? If she's predefined as the desk clerk in some other preceeding snippet of the story, fine. Otherwise, keep the same nouns.
>I and the old woman had been walking past the hallway
*The old woman and I, for grammatical correctness.
>and a girl in a drab garment stopped her and me, having quiet shut the door.
I'll guess *quietly here, and it's better to use "us" instead of the pronoun pair. Reads easier.
>And the desk clerk shouted an order at her. The girl went away, until from lower there came a thud and crashes like glass or a window. The desk clerk then commanded that the young maidservant show me the third and tallest floor, while she would attend to the noise.
Here, it's confusing. She went away, there was a crash, and then the clerk called another servant? I know you mean she STARTED to leave until she got called back by the old woman, so more effectively indicate that the maid hasn't left. "The girl went away" implies she's left the scene entirely. "Until" isn't good enough because it's after the aforementioned clause, which means the reader now has to rewrite the scene in their heads if they didn't catch your meaning, and if not there then at the next sentence or the following, which gets progressively worse.
>The floor is worse bowed up here, she managed.
I see at the end you're not using quotations and are going for speaking tags only. Don't make your sentences too long when you're doing this or you'll lose your reader.
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Been posting in these for a while now, been getting some actual good criticism so thanks all.
The Poeter

I love to poetize
Call me the poeman
If it falls in my sight
It'll become poetry
I'm a lean and so mean
Poetry machine
Hey there lady
You don't know it
But you've just been
Shit. There isnt a single evocative figure or image to speak of, just boredom
that's funny because your mom wrote it
sucked it up and blowed it
fuck it up the blow hole and
ate my asshole with utensils, shit,
so delectable you'd not believe it
achondroplasia for sheez nig

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