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Fate speaks in metaphors and whimpers, her tongue, a maggot in
rotten guts.
Once I saw a dead kitten breathe. It was a collective
squirm and heave of a mass of maggots, glutting eating septic
puss-mess of feline flesh roasted slow for weeks in the sun oven, so
tender it melts in your mouth and dissolves before you can even lip the
name of the dish on which you chew.
Sphinx, riddle me
this: why, with every fall and swell, so deep the thrusts, can't I
feel that same love worm inside of me?
**The Spin Cycle**
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