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John Edward Smallshaw
Poems
Apr 2019
Watching cyborgs
things where dreams don't be
things that look like you and me,
the door (whirs open)
which
spares me the job,
but
it's an electrical impulse
and
no charge for that information.
They're keying us into the system
bolting us to the frame and
where's your religion
when even Jesus forgets his name?
Written by
John Edward Smallshaw
68/Here and now
(68/Here and now)
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