"Now you’re just a hole filled with nothing except your own contorted head."
from a NEW poem by me, "Insecticide Dye Job" which now appears on the new LUSTRE, along with other new work by Cassandra Dallett and four men, here - http://lustremagazine.co/
"They poison you and then pull themselves out. You rip out more and more of your own debris and flush it partway down and then pull it back out of the clogged drain and try to decide what the hell to name it."
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