camped out on the tipping point
watching the urine waterfall
splash the remaining corners.
Fecal overhang
where the cave painters loiter
selling their wares to the whip crackers
for the sex of buzzing drones.
Parsons of the skin construct
farting blood into an artificial wind.
Readers of the barstool's proctology
up against a faint sky
in a proudly dying city
worshipping a crucifix of shit.
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