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How the Heart Pumps Blood Once my body had a simple plan: sit by and allow the others to pass, eat what remains and induce the tears-- collect hours to be spared at the end. When my body spoke, I hid under the stairs. My mind is appropriate for nothing. I dream among babies and other confessors. A swollen bomb is inside me. Dear, be careful how you breathe, I am becoming dust. Eager hound, sponging off my limbs: release me to the twelve-year-olds. The valves can't open. Hell unbottons its shirt under the spotlight, all its forgiving cleanliness. Now I must do something like dying. Doctor, why are those fingers tapping inside-- keeping time, their mood in full swing? Beneath the fluorescent glow, I shine. Now pronounce what you have labled, or describe for me your new invention. |
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