In The Bowels Of A Rust

Churn the damn scam
that awaits its moment
to rear its truth
Like smoking weeds
green, brown, sticky
laying prostrate
telling secrets to onlookers
who marvel and record
defecated prayers
Wishes are all You have
Verbiage reins supreme
Smoke smells
before ideas flow
Yet, who will fail to flush
after You wipe
Then so, who won’t?
How much length do You need
to pull out the real You
Maybe hip-flex color matters
when I reach for the air

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