in a sheep shank, not
a stomach, a liver, a gall bladder,
although i once had intestines, now
a length of garden hose.
a harpsichord full of termites for a soul,
dry rusty music like the wind
wrestling the high grass.
they fight like it's a game;
i don't play to win, i play to kill.
disguised as a bottle in a game
at a carnival where they play fair.
someone always stands me up again.
i don't want to play anymore;
i'd rather stay down.
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