Three-Piece

Write this malnourished poem or manic-depressed

story. Watch the dogs scrape their hind quarters

across the floor until you realize that you don’t own

animals.  No, what you see, good sir, are 

gentlemen and gentle women whom would walk

on their back legs in three-piece suit tie, top hat or

or ballroom dress with the delicate white frill around

the skirt.

Pick your color!  Are you male?—we have black, and

black.

Then.

Here it comes.

You look at your paw marks on the page, you are the

dog now.

Scratch your words together and make an effort until

you notice that you’re criticizing your own mark,

the one that you made.

Now you’re in that black three-piece suit

black hole, aren’t you?  And then you criticize your

criticisms; black hole of fuck.  And then you criticize

you criticizing your black of fuck criticisms,

and then you get into a black hole of fuck and then

you fuck

your fuck.

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