non-poem

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there could have been a poem there
if not for the moon
against
the pastel sky
screaming for attention.

the thought of no film,
no battery power.
not enough looser pixels
to do the job.

oh,
what a life

sitting on the only step
without fungus or debris
is my naked butt
convalescing,
craving pixels,
and
the subject switch of this
non-poem

more batteries, God.
More gypsy women with
left breasts yearning for my

suckle.

Combined misery is bliss.

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