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Oct 2017
My motionless body on which you grind;
Torrid, primal and seemingly blind-
My thoughts my mind, both count for naught;
My mannerisms I was so flawlessly taught.

Your body wants mine but where's your mind?
Above the inner lizard to which we're all confined-
Up top in your frontal lobe,
Besides those fingers with which you probe;

What's there? Anything at all?
More than the name your mother called;
Under all the impulsive acts and symbols and sounds-
At the core of the mass of meat to which you're bound.

It's got to be there, quelled by your grunts;
Beneath your instinctive need for ****.
Just stop it now, and sit real still;
Humanity must now continue, uphill.
John Hawkins
Written by
John Hawkins  23/Ireland
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