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The Motorbike Of The Morning

The saw blades of your mouth

are set to mutilate and tear to the core.

(at least the knife

has poetic silence

in its slicing)

Your ears are tuned to flats and sharps

wherever they occur.

Your eyes are rifles: shoot to kill.

Your nose snorts flames on all good will.

Into each day you come:

the motorbike of the morning,

ripping everything to bits,

drowning out your own self-loathing.

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