When We Pool Into Something Else (Like Cider)

Consumption of a spiced pulse;

or the capitalism of swallowing


flames. Dogged heads, bastardized

for orchard generations, pulverized

into cinnamon factories that linger

in taste, longer than good intention.


Pulpy brains are splattered

for the honor of the craft.

This is to suffer in order

to satisfy. So it goes.


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Hello, fellow bundle of nerves and flesh! I'm a simple little being who's half-poet, half-scientist, and all gelatinous chaos. Sort of like an illogical marshmallow. If you'd like to learn more, please seek out the "First Impressions" page. Thank you for the visit, bundle friend.

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