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my

your 

your fingers clamped at my hip like those plastic wind-up teeth you kept around to torment the dog, hip enough to chew on and not sleeping, not really, your other arm, fat finger cheerfully pointing out everything almost too big to see "baby there's the sun! your mother! a goddam garbage truck!" but i only look for things that fit in my mouth, that fat frog belching its assent all night woke me up halfway twice so far but i jerked off crying a little. this sleep is the big one and staying here bandaged in sheets is better than being out there in the daylight with a sackful of lightbulbs and nowhere to plug them in. i want to make you hold one in your mouth like the pig at the feast you couldn't wait to eat me at and didn't because i was sleeping. not dead. it's question, i hear you all "i like beer" i drink beer is she dead, is she sleeping, i am trying to get off which is not the same as away

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