abides in beds of rich violet,
rears up with many heads
and unseen limbs,
doll's eyes vomiting soil
with a milk of metallic hue,
and I sit at my desk roofless
in a tar-caked wasteland,
waiting to see those among the dead
who would fall with me
back into this world
and rip its vain belltowers down.
Softly I refuse the dead,
put up on shelves
new parcels for the living
who have empty hands.
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