On hard wood floors we eat our hard wood appetites, dowsed like liquored up addicts we beat and repeat and repeat the same monotone syllable lunch time.
We live in thatch houses ashamed of the stereotype, the stuttering days of yesterday, precarious swearing on our mortal tongue, slathering we pass our kisses on the crack on his head, he might be dead. We know he is suffering; we suffer too, laughing through his gritted fingers he keeps in, stifling.
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