You tell me, in the future, /electric guitar replaces an automatic rifle/ interloping a clinch,/grope no more for greased bullets./ This success will fuse extinction ,,/look through lenses/ beleaguered by the senses./The only thing coming from a trigger /other than a hot touch /is a joyous séance,/the aftermath of countless dramas.
Rage Amongst Equals
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Poetry in Motion 