We are America.
We are the coffin fillers.
We are the grocers of death.
We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
The bomb opens like a shoebox.
And the child?
The child is certainly not yawning.
And the woman?
The woman is bathing her heart.
It has been torn out of her
and as a last act
she is rinsing it off in the river.
This is the death market.
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it speaks multitudes
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I saw your picture post on Found Objects, and one of the chair pictures caught my eye: http://static.flickr.com/73/199581046_a7479a5da4.jpg?v=0
I'd like to make a print of it to hang up in my house, and I'm wondering if you'd be willing to give/sell me a print. If you like, contact me on nina.san@gmail.com so we can discuss.
Cheers,
Nina
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