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12:10 to Lyon

Cows.

Squared in fields.

Pinned by light.

Paint us!

They bleat.

Hoping they are milk.

Not meat.


First published by Sacred Chickens

Tastes like chicken but like everything else it’s not. The liver is Nagasaki. The lungs Hiroshima or Jesse James and Dear Old Death comes to us all but the quiver is fantastic. Like lips full of bees.

Sidemen crouch in stairwells. Waiting to make their move. Microphones hiss. Like snakes on the take. Parker crushes his smoke and Raises the Horn. This is a Gig Baby and the liquor is Top Shelf. Remem

The house smells of apples and hard cold water. Your dog whimpers in her dream chair. Rabbits pouring out of countless bushes. Easy pickings when you are still. Outside there are stars. Cold and brigh

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