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Duodenum Melee: 11/24/02
The pavement glistens red in the sunlight,
The dirty fingernails are dragging alongside,
She stares into the bright sun,
While it burns her retinas it leaves a scar,
And when she looks down the sunspot is piss-colored,
Then it morphs to red and deep purple,
She reaches back into the empty car seat,
And pulls up her rusty pocketknife,
Why can't she turn them off,
She can only turn him on,
And he haunts her every morning,
Looking back from her mirror and whispering,
Why am I your touniquet?
ARV Terminate: 11/25/02
Now it is time for erupting orgasmic pleasures,
Ordered from Kenya adjacent to viral infections,
Your warning lights did not signify them,
As if they were dim but truly burnt out,
The liar tribes are held above fire log ritualistic dances,
Embers floating are reminders of deadly choices.
Paradox: 11/26/02
Fallen stars that melt into a misshapen ice sculpture,
Steam mist rising to the lower abyssal zone,
A crack in the pavement filled by the heavy void,
A standing bench falling towards the grey skies,
A truthful politician that lies on his deathbed,
Trash receptacles with barbed wire to keep it out,
A red striped yellow polka dotted sweater vest,
That burns in the water,
And sinks in the fire.
Culture: 11/27/02
Now I must admit that I enjoy the way a slit wrist feels,
As I torment the mind, body, and soul until my skin peels,
Picking off lumps of dead, coarse skin,
And tossing it into a biohazard garbage bin,
Taking each one of my freshly cut fingernail remains,
Slicing up my bloody torso until I can't feel any pain,
The shrieks turning from pleasure to pure fear,
And running from myself and whatever comes near,
Rattle and shake I dig up graves of the dead,
And collect enough heads to keep my family fed,
Grilling the sesame cranium over a flaming skillet,
The body's floating spirit softly begs me to kill it,
But I would rather get back to my daily self-torture,
And buy myself enough strength for this culture.

Sharing Aiła: 11/29/02
Novinha, must we share this one aiła,
Inside Johnny's seppuku plastic container,
How will we hold each other now,
If we are one skinless box,
How will we open each other's hearts,
If we share this one aiła,
Perhaps we should split into rays of light,
And we could grow new ripened fruit,
To share with each other,
Will a divide between us require seppuku,
Ritual suicide,
Or shall I call for Johnny,
Your, no our fictious hero,
To kill us, no me, this plastic container.