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Graham Pountney May 2015
My thoughts are running, on an unstationed path.
My mouth is cunning, , im coughing tar, terribly rough black.
I smell like a bag of ******* chippers,
Kurt Philip Behm Feb 2020
Everyone else has gotten off,
how long am I to stay?

The train unstationed, tender gone,
its engine writhed in pain

Did I miss my stop on the journey down?
“an express” the porter screamed

All light afire, ticket burnt
—satanic nightmare dreamed

(Drexel University: February, 2020)

— The End —