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matthew-pasquarello · 15 hours
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Pear Street.
i’ll allow you to speak ill of the living villains, criticize ambivalence, tie together their shoestrings the basis of all you find wrong with the right things 
dogs sniff each others’ asses, but men stab each others’ backs bleeding droplets onto the currency with every tight-gripped transaction
so do tell…
all my friends have tubes down their throats. all my friends have no room to gloat. i don’t come from a long line of innocents. 
snatch God, sit pretty in his spot. give all the enemies duct-taped wings and rip them off. back to the slime-caked aqueducts running under heaven. 
this street corner smells like a vinyl record spun too long. hipsters attracted to an album cover depicting two junkies arguing over what should go into their Declaration of Co-Dependence. nothing ever gets done, but with this barely anything goes wrong.
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USA (UMBRELLA STATES OF AMERICA)
do me a favor and don't steal my science fiction slash nonfiction title will ya
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Amazon search my name and buy my book for less than 3 bucks Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello Amazon.com : matthew pasquarello
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thank you: for sticking your ego in my android parts bleeding oil from appendages replaced with soldered soup cans and doing my best to still recite whatever the opposite of shakespeare would be
fuck that guy (or collection of guys)
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just so intrinsically easy to jot down periodic nonsense with melting shoes comfortably resting on the firepit rocks. these fossils in the forest are good at listening and listing all the better ways to die, but i've stuck kite parts in all my pockets and still i haven't been lifted higher toward any clearer revelation.
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six minutes to sell you on me, the many masks in the audience immobile, invulnerable, casting fear like radiowaves in a
padded
ballroom
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intimacy: licking each other's stitches deep in a florescent embrace. I'm sorry that your stomach hurts I'm sorry that mine is filled to bursting with junk drawer magic.
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inquire. dungeon of respect darkness of intellect letting glass puppies drink heartily from rancid puddles and everyone from my generation is prone to not making any sense and everyone from my generation is prone to complaining about bitter rivalries made-up in the dull glow of computer tangerine.
inquire. a pen never made me bleed but a letter opener on the other hand
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rock hard from medusa's tits, live large and prosper from the sanctuary of the snake pit while the fever eats the membranes like snow on a walk home
be furious with nothing, be banished to the crypt of much braver unknown soldiers, watch rodents lose dice to the vipers
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Without context I'm just a guy with his clothes on backwards
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how will we justify our saving when the bombs are in our palms sure they had their reasons for the songs they so carefully chose for the end of all these roads count our bloody splinters count our decrepit blessings as the radio dial is broken off the beautiful interior of this antique and frustratingly thrown out into the vast realm beyond where the garbage heaps sigh and say "enough all-fuckin-ready"
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zombies asking questions. tickling all the fancy parts of town with rotten fingers, survivors in dark basements asking "i wonder when the next newspaper will come into fruition" and saying "drugs are technically legal but no one's there to save us from ourselves" we'll be little critters in the walls our monuments will grow exhausted with rust
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from the confines of the butterfly skull throne, the right to bitch and moan with doctored documents i rule the world from the bathtub and all these beer cans scurry to make end's meet
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go, go, go scary primordial shadows leading the fight they think is good into the sickness of the sinus-like wastelands with promises of better times as though spoonfed waterlogged sugar nothing we can do but prune our limbs and wait to grow back unbroken
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the fisherman's guilt
the ocean in the bottle
smart enough to avoid the antics of the ancestors,
dumb enough to inherit their borrowed time
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size queen sisters
gentle remembrance of mailbox anxiety
when will they find out,
when will we stop watching from
behind the
bay window's curtains?
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matthew-pasquarello · 10 days
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shut up and study catch me wandering the aisles catch me yawning loud enough to alert the guards no mean men in even the soup kitchens of paradise no clear motives for angels making private phone calls
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