Art for fuck’s sake sanctioned as purity.
Well what if everything fell apart. Would. There. Be. Tacos.
Needle high, and high needles. Needless. Ned and his.
Membrane sandwich. Remembering which land we came from.
And then nothing,
For many years.
As if we could,
As if we understood.
Or stood under it.
And does this make me happy?
One at random,
Less not tandem,
Confess rot then I’m done.
I’m writhing about the taco man.
I mean writhing about the taco, man,
I really mean writing. Writing.
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