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If I could poem, I could have been a contender.

I don’t do tokens of appreciation
aperitifs before dinner, or
The missionary position
On Saturday night

I don’t do back plot via culmination
Or share delicate bites of my entree
Or tremble with guilt
When watching Tic Tok

I don’t do cauliflower
Which is pop art chlamydia
That prompts Deus ex Machina
Which one should never do

And I don’t do yesterdays
lightly.. nostalgia as codiment, or
wistfulness as condom..the now
ever pregnant, always the slap on the ass

And I don’t do victim victuals
Now that we’re all on the menu
It’s not the muse you’re missing
It’s the pretend you…
timestamped-
by a year or more of trauma

Rally, really.
Rally.



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