Showgirl - Dystopian Poetry
this death will be the life of me
patches in the sky
we used to call them clouds
before the bombs went off
and canopied us in a toxic shell;
the artist swapped his brush
for a brick
and threw it in tantrum
from a distance
at some cheesy idyllic canvas
and despite our decaying teeth falling out
with clumps of hair and skin
you slipped out of your negligee
a little too easy tonight
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