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Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 10-June 19:17:50 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 84444
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Cliché
[time] => 2005-02-14 20:22:03
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => The sleeping tax has been ravenous in fiction, Since this hairy coma tickled a noose Around my panic. At the cost of a sweaty pair of shackles, It used to drag ice picks across my chest. And that was only the foreskin, Of everything illegitimate in its smile. It was pedagogical in pretence, Right up until the tapeworm’s ugly torso, Beat its way inside my thighs. In heat, I used to cough aloud, “Just please marry me, When this execution is over.” Some call it anaplasty, when slipping, That Botox in the sores. I prefer taxidermy but I have not the words to say. All I know is that when your tissue sinks, Underneath my fingernails, I’ll want it less but need it more. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 184 [topic] => 43 [informant] => savingmarion [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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