Hair is funny

Boxes of it

Under the stairs

 

You open your mouth with it

Like straps of sinew

You rot through its hokusai voices

 

It is mobile as hate

The statues invade the gallery

The hour hand combs

 

braids through red

The clues ejaculate

Scene by scene

 

I have no scull

This is my bus –

Red dress. Nits

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