Textling #71

Worst days pain ricochets like shooting stars with pinball crushes. Oh the love! Releases fiery goo when ramming rib tooth bone. Skull reels alone; body razed by frequent flyer flares, flags pushed here there, declaring consternation zones. Each smart begets another, emulates: ear equals ankle throat wrist shin, and brass bands march in new-laid grooves, playing their loudest, most discordant tunes. Strangely breasts score synchronicity, pressed hard against the faces of two grinning clocks (hands colliding, clouding time). Neither words nor image until pacified.

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