the older the colder, the specimen
neither smiles at you or me
suffocation at a point
postitive procrastination
contemplation on a stick
will these rails squeak or squeal
i dunno
the specimen is filled with Formaldehyde
smells good, looks good, feels good too
tastes like chicken
extension on the arm, flexion of the heart
half face with perfectly cut lines
i see you
inside you
your brain
shaved and embalmed
lying perfectly still
anatomical position
on the table
the spittle on the tip of your tongue
makes me not wanna hear your voice.
mother of me, please leave me alone to type.
face it, facets are all you can say
i just wanna stay here in my room and not go anywhere.
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