it is more pleasing
to grow stubble in speeds
incongruent with
indignation
upheld by male-defined
gesticulating histories
through rogue monologues
struggling with oedipus
blurred in complex sex and
softened in the wrecks
paralleled by his
counterpart now
orphaned by a muse
bonded by the rape
situated inside
sunlight’s frustration
thought
the light inside a woman’s eyes is a radical delusion that man feeds through dominion of dénouement.
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