Bleed, cowards, bleed;
For your art and properdom and punctual punctuation.
For your canvas and your ink bottles, and those extra sleeves
to wear over your heart.
And those sentences that start with a voice, just to lose their humanity, running
on and on and on and on and on.

My teeth grind, like gears in a stasis, observing my sweat
and fervor. My crimes of ending sentences in prepositio...

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