My mother
Thinking is so much chemical.
The nasty smell of death
Is in boat, earth-pot and river
It is all a game, my being
Your being and the sky-being
A simulation or something
Mother-love remains and not.
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Poetry based upon actual experiences, not one thought up in the intellectual aridness of a pseudo-thinker. Words as they mean in the specific context of recollected thought or image , not meaning several things at a time but that which re-creates an aura or a haze of an earlier experience.
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