Christ, could I get some slack? On my right
my noble friend writhes for no more than
insurance—should I not last the price of
a ticket. Representing the left-hand path
and similarly strung here at Eve’s rib’s side,
and symbolically offered in payment for my
own murder, a mere hapless and utterly
claimless passerby. Black Maggie labored
into full dark of a second day to tattoo
across my smashed insteps a number
where she could be reached, were it to
come soon. And that gal’s got prospects.
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