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LA | NY A Special Edition of The East Village
Take this poem and banish it from my sight Those hurt faces want to be spiked unconditionally. They have been duped by sightseers. Well-dressed people do not walk the streets & are not susceptible to the charms of our metropolis. The people grow taller every year, without the old vices that once rendered them decent. I am attaching a bird's head with two slow turns of the neck, spork swallowing spork as the ground fog passes.