Stop celebrating. Your head, carved slowly from events, costs double the suit sitting on a hanger like a frog made of frogs. Your creeps were similarly expensive, shakes talking for their own security. We lie, some of us, and we wish ill upon others. We seek a hole to plug with a cork that someone older and more ignorant passed to us with a kiss.
Such kisses close on potions. The tension pleases a never-ending collapse which has been civilized except when longer. The walk, the walk. Touching down on a silence constructed from bodies, the bodies we carried out ourselves and put into new circumstances that, still, refuse to clatter.
I wanted to hear it. So I put both my ears on. Those clothes, suitable but not alive, can only go so far, so far as you know. A tear in the collar, weeping all day but not once falling. The air between songs thins until hitting tin. What breath caught on a thorn? Did you want it back? Again, it goes too far, far as the end of the line drawn by dark monkeys taking turns with a stick. Love in a package? If you say so. Stop celebrating the end of the world, the means aren't yet out. They need a likable accent, a frog's pity. What they need, not what they were given.
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