my mother ran out of my sore emotions/ my rawopen mouth, with her hair on fire. pushkin heard there was plagueup ahead, in the estates at bodin, and said fuck it. he wrote well there, the universe the gods came and sat, wondering at him: guess this is mozart, guess the rest of us can… Continue reading poem: hamlet
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i could be bound in a nutshell and count it as infinite space if not for these bad dreams
the last pavilion 