from bed, it’s us

you won’t find me in yemen

i have no reason to go, yet

you may have to search for me in the second round of torture rows that froze my nose in areas of those who decided it was better to paint my portrait than flip a fortune for when a friend comes up to me and asks for that one time flat fee i wash my hands and give them away, that’s not how i extend my hands these days it’s paper machete fantasies whistling by your grave and hoping it’s not only kentucky fried chicken that left me a slave without you to pretend i have an enemy as he galvanizes a country over a common threat wars of the past have turned to ideas and tan faces he’s a martyr for us all it’s just that we are too stuck to hear the call that one man shouldn’t have this much gall. he’s screamingly sarcastic winter marches matches and no one can pick those latches to freedom it’s a consumption of ourself that shackles our hands holding that screen making reversible plans discipline without this again trapped in steam room situations barely making out who comes to see us these days with lock doors drowning demented decals growling stay away in gay and this levitation you see is the only way cataclysm at baptism water to sustain and all you did was watch the drain and let us piss away in the falling rain. 

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