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Meaning the number 15 bus, downtown only. God‘s grand plan ablaze in the face of that fecal smelling man rocking in the isle. For his eyes flame in his wiry bush, and his hips pump with the ecstatic thrust of florid psychosis. Finger lodged in being‘s socket. Fingers alive as blind seeking Worms out of earth. Pull the cord brother! Your stop is also mine. There is time yet to be dispossessed, to dim. To bow to the gaze of ones who claim no one is watching but more glassy lenses than flies have eyes and hives of microphones buzz behind every wall Mister, you tell me they‘re not listening!


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