The mint is burning—
I can tell by my eyes—
and no one here grows wheat anymore.
We seriously lack for amber waves of.
Livestock shitting everywhere:
1) Plop plop plop.
2) Slit their thick wet throats.
It’s my summer of the Manson Family—Doesn’t everyone have one?—
And I’m a little freaked
about how neat it all sounds: Young women acting like little tiny girls:
Holding hands and singing songs, their faces clean as winter.
Just like children. He said.
(Except for all the fucking.)
My google searches are a little out of hand.
(And the other stuff.)
Hurricanes are everywhere and I delight
in thinking about discrete killings, consider eating the dead mouse my cat brings.
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