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February 12, 2011

Sweet hooker, you tumble down
the street as if it were your bed.
I think such work’s a treat,
Like feeding without being fed.

You’re just a toy in the hands
Of men, as stones are, as we!
You follow your crotch, your glands;
What you feel you feel – it’s simple.

Because of that you seem happy;
You’re all the nothing you see.
I look at myself – I’m not that.
I’m not I, don’t know what.


From → Poems

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