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BRIDLE

Skid in your own blood dancing
On the spit of your last commendation
Skip as if you were nothing
To the moon of your own creation
 
Sucked on the breasts of pigs
Tempered by the soil of loss
Roused on the kisses of whores
You rose with the leap of a horse.
 
Out of a stable called body
A bridle left in tatters
A cradle of hapless dust
Where nothing really matters
Written by whale
Published
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