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290 Drummond Street, 700$ a month

Burnt Amber, maybe Sienna, with gold threads to highlight the glare from the window.
Burdened with clumps of textiles that arent even there.
Oil, contrived, red imprinted gloss, empty with air.
Metal cut into thin sheets, supported by a line, designed to match a fake sky of emblished hue

Grains of ply, technology dead and empty
Two plastic necks, one white and one tipped with red, kiss but a peck on each other's nose
Cup painted crimson, again another empty

Opaque air and grains are home to a pile of shame, intestines of power houses spread over top
Thin sheets of trees glued together with string, opened, but not considered

Curtains, pickings from leftover dinner, wooden spleen to block out the light
Leaking rays of sight glare onto this type
On top a cummed stained cushion made for tonight's sleep

Mirror, mirror next to a dead box of teeth, rabbits dont need ears to think
One compartment is used to hide a secret of common knowledge
The one next to it is filled with threads of need
Cylinder made to stop the reek of me, spring time fresh indeed
A shelf only slightly used, is begging to be treated with color
Magic calming solutions, shaft filled with wishes to make everything normal

Rags to clean yourself off with hangs on a finger nail for use after we are done,
We are done.

images


he's always with you, even if you're not

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