Jack wrote some bluesy shit
that sank like jazz in the afterlight
where everyone forgets and prose
is so useless/ I'm writing I'm writing
all the time except on here which I've
forgotten I'm writing. There's poets out there in
the why don't we read what we say
lemonade/ the bodies in the street
on little feathery birds being pulled
down in the wind, splattered all over the bridge
and that's fucked up/ I can't shit
shit I can't talk/ I feel sad when their eyes close
they don't teach us anymore they won't
tell us anymore, shortly ever after
what sun never comes up over the gilded golden
leafy unnecessary globe? ah-Ha
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