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That Turd
The man who shits,
pants down, squatting
in the street, is prophet.
Cause these times cackle
behind glass,
sneer in freezers,
mock from carpeted mansions.
That turd, reeking on concrete
unassailable, finally
cracks the perfumed bottle
riddled with soldiers, tanks,
oiled jailers, machete makers,
cattle prod stickers – all
spill from the shit-shattered
glass.
The voices stop.
And tiny hearts
turn.
Beat.
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