chicken colored Southern chap charged for the chagrin of his own alcoholism, afternoon behind wine-tinged shades and Tom Collins, wood panel after bloom-time gets moldier and mustier, breaths shorten while folding flags, it’s illegal to use an i to outfit an armoire with mothballs, two movements, an arm, a needle, drip by drop toward death row, no, stay, saddle us with the dead man’s DNA. i am a killer the killer is me.
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