Opium-infused
energy
pounding blood
orange
in smoke-wind, lobby-light
She can't write poetry for shit, she says
His
muse is only damp
a
mutter of a muse
sputtering
inspiration
His knuckles snapcrack
He bends experience
love
his soul
and
the leftovers
into complete nullity
He
stoops into art that has already surrendered
like
sterile street-talk
While she breaks
her watermelon nails on the taptap keys
letter L is missing
Whi e they s ave over iterature
she
can't find that one etter she needs
to
spe what she wants
Dear Mr. Verse,
you are so superficial
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