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  Scott Malby
   
     
Baudelaire in hell
 
Language has impoverished eyes. The path existence takes
explodes with seeds I want to eat to bloom, to understand;
digest. Therefore, poets are creepy things stapling their sex
in see through bags to each page, always digging, thinking
of China. Clair De Lune is the song I hum as if to mock them
from my earthy crib no wider than their shoulders.

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