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The Drawing of Baby Winehouse

spun on minutes of bruised matter raw thumb skin hashing against loose cotton fiber, busted lips from temperature flux; a taste is only a taste today. spitting fruit pits over the rails of the dam, our concrete bowl of echoes brawling blunt smoke to paranormal proportions. everything of us scuffed but shoe soles. in favor of black on black painfully simple, dull beasts at bay, joints wed to winter notes. pause drawn. raw thumbed. spit in the eye.

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