| In the shade, in the cold, a grey pastry, a sallow dough. |
| A giant lump of some
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| ý/&%/ substance
|
| Wallowing in an over-sized glass jar. |
| Quivering, gurgling. |
| Reminding of muddy
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| aspic. |
| It looks so «/)&/"ý%. It makes me feel so ?)#/&?='*
|
| Like a giant mite about to burst after gorging ichor. |
| Taking *ý&()?
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| *ý#"%& shapes. Stretching flabby limbs. Worming out of the jar
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| Towards the yellow light
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| Excreting a trail of milky pus through the surface rendering
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| Outgrowths form in no time, falling off. |
| Tongues emerging from the orifices.
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| Froth and drool drying up as all crumbles away. |
| The pus
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| Smouldering and steaming off
|
| Looking is not seeing is not understanding is not believing is not agreeing.
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| It looks so *%#ý()=. |
| It swells, it grows, it expands. |
| I
|
| Think it will #ý/$L@(?
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| Waiting is not longing is not hurting is not bleeding in a world trapped in a
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| world trapped in a world. |
| The dough’s gurgle ceasing
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| With the yellow rays scorching it. |
| It’s throwing a crust, which cracks and
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| unpeels, reminding of flocks of mangy dogs running downhill
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| The two of us can’t coexist |