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Who balled in the morning in the evenings
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in rose gardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries
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scattering their semen freely to
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whomever come who may,
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Who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle
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but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish bath
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with a blonde and naked angel
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came to pierce them with a sword,
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The act of writing becomes, like, a meditation exercise.
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If you walk down the street in New york for a few blocks,
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you'll get this gargantuan feeling of buildings.
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And, if you walk all day, you'll be on the verge of tears.