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Andrew Michael Roberts

Butchery of the Human Heart

2 December 2004
Vol. 4, No. 4
poetry

All fist and forearm,

apron-stained, I am nothing to you—

a scrap. A skin. Offal of lust.

I am giblets and gristle—

Lament

2 December 2004
Vol. 4, No. 4
poetry

This pack of pot-bellied songbirds squats

at gutter's edge all night, passing butts

of Lucky Strikes and belting the blues.

My window's stuck up and I'm laid low.

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