We are all dead people sitting
in jars
on dashboards;
Carcasses missing frontal lobes
and
wearing automatic tongues.
Life has become a requiem;
people with swollen hands in
Tin cans.
Everything is crooked
Upside down
light headed
abstract symmetry.
Why wait for the day I
blink blood from my eye?
An open throat would keep me from
calling out for
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