The poet Is a sleazy angel, A denim spirit sprinting. His wads of wing fall off in hunks, Cigarette smoke shuffled. He speaks such hushes, Just specks. Like oil, like sin. Dear poet, how can I help, My hero of loneliness? Nothing. I suspect. You see? His eyes, run long, droop, like drips of honey, like glue. His eyes run along, and come back burnt Just like glass, the long thin glint. Get used to the shards at your feet. We are made of the flu. Black and blue disappear from your face. What news do I have for you?
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