Exposed early as a takes-myself-too-seriously, of penny loafers and Brachiopods,
to walk the ocean floor of psychosis, wayward darts, the geography of depressive places,
separated, the canyons of earth-quaked hemispheres, a genetic lava of suicidal tendencies—
Mall Alternative Terry, asks, “You want to give up this album?!”
“Your pride will get you!” My great grandmother warned, “Be your downfall—“
“What if, Kim, what if,” my mother rolled her eyes.
“Welcome to the world of art,” declared Papaver,
and, “That is not how a young lady behaves,”
degraded my father. Make one of these,
your last lines,
your last life, your last hurrah!
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