Spitting iron and limestone,

Rust and grease,

You’re shifting through the shit:

There are no precious stones in my words.


13 parallel lines,

Drawn with an unsteady hand

And yet perfectly formed.

He’s had years of practice.


Life is your canvas.

Don’t confine yourself to paper

Use the walls, use the floors,

Use my thighs, use your wrist.


I run my hand over the hills;

I run my tongue over the mountains;

You taste regret

And I taste jealousy.




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