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My poo.

'How are you?'
That's all I said,
it seems to have caused some confusion,
as if I uttered an illicit line,
a portion of profoundly impenetrable prose,
a paradoxical poo in your sparkly pure thought stream.
Now you, you're back in your corner,
by the frosted window
and the warmest radiator.
These words with which I inadvertently raped you
are filtering through your fingers -
my poo on your paper.


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