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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