condiment
random percussives
beaten on discarded
coracles with mallets
vats of elvers in warehouses
guarded by unlucid dreamers
colossal awareness of self
exemplified by that magpie
niggling
thought
of what
smoked flesh drifting
into landfilled mouths
piqued by a lack
of curiosity shop
window dressing
a thought
less taste
+ mo’ tang
it’s a sock
darn it
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