I’ve been sick for a week now. I haven’t been this sick since the big flu of 2016, which I wrote about in #83.
From my chamber of isolation, I can see everything blossoming outside. I feel hateful and resentful, like I could spit on a flower.
Anyway, here’s a poem.
A spy in the house of schmuck I swan in to say alright, inherit the world then. The night’s pink tongue points me to the right vault. The lobbyists sing and we eat what they tell us Someone's blonde slits my throat and my tombstone reads: it is not adding up! because it wasn’t & I assume it still won’t be by the time you get here with a rose in your mouth panting blood like a dog
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