Saturday, January 18, 2014


Gently reach a thousand feet to trip on shoelace
incomplete a bitter ink a bone necklace a confederate
sabre on grampa's wall grampa on grampa's fur rug mouth
open eyes rolled back back to fuck dead it's a
sterile living room when I come to claim my little things, the
things I've always been eyeing while he lived and I waited and
he breathed and I waited until I would own a few of his things
like that sabre on the wall to remind me of the slavery of criminally
certain entitlement and remind me to hate myself for at least
one hundred and fifty more years or until reparations are made for

but it's especially disturbing how handsome he could be still
the monster

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