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Choreography of the Truth.

That moment
when you have to verbally
tell your fingers, insist
to them, as they hopelessly
hover above the keyboard,
plump, throbbing,

trembling,
ever-ready for cerebral
climax:

NO.

You are clearly
drunk, damned digits.

Do not write
that. You will feel
like an asshole
tomorrow and stew
about the shitty nature
of your underlying, suggested
soul all fucking day,

and this kind of scenario
is, at best, clearly
unproductive. At the level
of worrisome, suggests
one should pause
and reflect. In faith, best
to blackout.

Your shadow will grab
the reigns. Truth dances
when those wide, egoic eyes
get fucked up. Take the chance,
find the fucking courage
to look the other way

as the truth betrays
itself, displays
itself before
your naked eyes,

her streaking eyes,
all their wide open,
ocular silos…

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