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Samuel Bass May 2013
Cold soft plastic, even colder metal with rough edges. Soft until I strike, the metal gets hot and I want to lick it. Flames high, taste them.
Samuel Bass May 2013
Technology in upheaval my beer is full.

*** fills my mind with pheromones while half my hand goes limp.

I can’t feel, and nobody can feel me.

This perplexing relationship is mute resting in a lull.

I go away soon. My brain sees the afternoon and never more sooner do I go lunar.

It’s a language fight, who has the right, I might, with delight I entice the ever bloated fat cat with money scats coming from three throngs of bludgeoning

It’s turning into a symphony  you seeing me, me seeing me, you seeing you, you blowing who. ******* the dmca from the caves of *** filled futures of virus infected tri-elected future tumor leaders.

**** the breeders!  Heaters is what I have, ******* for the slave pit to go desolate into it, feeling the kit in it my slit, that which you lick. I hit and quit with quite the light of resolution and destitution upon your innovations of new year munitions.

It’s a ******* mind game, stop asking and stop doing the same.You have it [answers] in your hearts.
Written mid-april 2013 on a drunken binge.

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