the torch handle burns
the born words turn bodies
loose
like genitalia,
on the heat of this dead line-
age
on the pyre of marginalia
pubes
these
scribblings
these
body wrinkles in brains
this writhing from
wombs
towards the surface.
the moon, they yell
rains light
without the hell
we write
page by page,
pregnant rage
strips
essays of clothes.
make me know
longer tongue and
primal rose
this is
where words
weak
die for
finalelipsis...
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