Cheap, Ugly Things

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Frank's sauce is women's shoes envy

I'm writing you hopefully that counts for something.

I pulled lines out of my wallet, wads of paper. More paper than you can shake a stick at. Lines wrought in the nothing of the air that surrounds a half-drunken man in a bar with a quickened, bourboned mind. What I stole from you has been modified. It's has a confused history.

Hope you're well.

My twin is running around here somewhere and he's a nastier mother fucker than I am, I tell you
And that's sayin' something

at a poetry reading

upper limit poetry
lower limit testosterone-laced conversation about American Pie

quick its seagulls eyes

squiggly lines mean nothing

our basements are full of cheap, ugly things

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