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God Mend Thine Every Flaw

Falling off the bottom of your blistery lip—
unkempt and lost like a fart in the wind,
crucifying the dip clinging to your chip, as your
kids hang their cellphone bills on your chin.
 
Your fridge is covered in crappy art—
obesely ripping your arteries apart, for
under that old american stretch mark
resides the rest of your gelatinous heart.
 
Give that moldy loaf a chance
or risk a journey to the corner store,
dying is worth not putting on pants—
dog shit tastes
alright off the floor, with
mayonnaise paste and
nacho decor.
 
Malignant deformities in exigent distress
ogling your obnoxiously odd abscess,
tearing apart like the seams in your dress—
hello my sweet little cardiac mess,
eating the back-handed sentiments you express—
regurgitating the genes you passed on, more or less.
Other works by Lxnnnie Rutledzh...



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