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Grave of the Governor.

Heads
of your enemies
in aquariums

laid out
in your private
viewing room

(reanimated
life in amber)

where, alone,
you can rock,

recline
on your comfy
chair, gaze
locked, drink
in hand:

really, this is
your pinnacle;

your highest point
in this enduring,
rancid, uncompromising
shit-storm
of a story. So live

it up, loser. Breathe
in the dirt I am busily
shoveling over

you, motherfucker,
a dead seed
planted six feet down,

lord of the lapis
chiseled
with an epitaph
by the departed:

King
of Nothing
but Dirt.

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One response to “Grave of the Governor.

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