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in this Karaman

i’m beat beat

there is a sweatstorm
in my trousers

and if you find yourself
falling apart

there is a rain of mud
and a lake of salt

I’m posed and popping
like a peacock

what used to calm
rips my life to ribbons

my gut kicks
map it blind

i can’t say it’s a sickness
but a stranger slipping nooses in my den

yr old man was
a wishing machine

a toy chest
if only we hope


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