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(content) nothing
i would drive a sword
through the echoing cunt of the sky,
bleeding clouds like dishtowels or sheep.

the afterbirth of God
would destroy every roof,
and every monk would drown in it.

but, of course, there is no God to abort.
what is this barbarity but a flat metaphor
growing like a hand through mud
in the spare graves of my soul.

we are in constant spiritual pain,
those of us who see the stars
and fail to make them see us too.

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