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Sep 2017
what was this supposed to be again?

I think I left my keys in the car.
the nightbird sings a song
the humid air beats down like
a while-worn five hundred miles.

a roach tapped against the glass.
a gasp is stuck in my throat like
gross times *****-up and eye lids

the keys are in the car and this poem means nothing.
Written by
FRITZ  21/Other/Carcosa Outer-City Limits
(21/Other/Carcosa Outer-City Limits)   
   Marshall Messi
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