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Thunder Sandwich #23 |
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John Sweet |
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in the lesser age of starving dogs says the kid isn't his and that the mother is a whore says he's in love his hands like rusted metal or like claws at the flesh of someone else his bare feet across the floor of a cheap motel room her perfume and the smell of cigarettes the sound of traffic too many meaningless days to fill nowhere this day scraped down to sky and bone the shapes of buildings bent and twisted and the way the trees mimic them the way the powerlines separate one form of emptiness from another and i remember you telling me you loved me and i remember the rope holding you tight to the bed a single room with two windows and the dirty sunlight that spilled through the smaller one the words that poured from your mouth the laughter |