by Emma Ambos
Man-junkies swinging
the streetcops like tennis shoes
up the high-wires
they balancebeam their arms
and puncture pattern the ectoplasm
like laces, Anne’s and blood clots
the clouds they hang from
like martyrs, they moan
and fight the bit-
Riders of Leprosy
gods of their Own
crucified on the hot-shot
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neat..!
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