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the little Funky town…next to where we were.

Momentum of acorn’s debris.

lackadaisical-ly, organized chaos.

Melody out on the edge of no particular place.

Bias go free.

As the inner tantrum deliver’s rare, raw, sanctum days.

A remembrance of hoodlum and humdrum.

No royalties here.

Just misogynistic femininity.

Proper places where talking mannequins feel fit.

Vintage homesteads…playing dead.

Forks stuck in the dead-end road.

Worth the whiling away of long, straw, days…and, slower than molasses, evenings.

Living out softly.

On the shoe strings and pedigrees.

 

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