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each ride’s a suicide

un petit mort
of petites fours
and inside petty wars
against show tunes and pinafores
against the flays of poets and faggots
amid baseball caps and back slaps
in combat boots with ankles a-sprain
we journeyed forth saw parasols
we heard on the night-vision wind the patrol:
when you believe in things you don’t understand 
then you suffer

say something nice ... or not

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