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Jah, what would you say to a shy girl’s prayers,
eeked out each hymn, each blood-clot hemorrhaging
niece. In silk-stained clouds; a world of nightmares,
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milkweed pods and sexed regimens. Fucking
results in nothing. There is no magic
when the witch is bored. One. Your clothing grows
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small. Two. Tilt your head back. Now three. You’ll lick
what I put in there. These bottled freak shows
beggar the dead, it is our job to kiss
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them back to life. Cave in. Carve out. Forget
that you have a husband, children, lifeless
marriage. Shy girl. Let’s be what the dead miss;
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a spot of blood, wipeout. Us getting wet
comes like this: orgasms without malice.
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