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Shakespeare's Monkeys
Infinite Monkeys. Infinite Typewriters.
More in Jasmine's Poetry
Heaven isconformity,squared;a doublenegative:
It's the cigarettebetween her lips,the debaucher'stongue shovedin her cleavage.
Light winks out,shifting black pinpricksin the space amonghaloed silhouettes.
And she stands onstreets paved gold,shoulder bladesstripped as faras her wingswill allow.
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There are no monkeys here. If you're looking for monkeys, go away. Well, actually there are monkeys, but they're of the hairless variety that writes poetry and such. If that's not what you're looking for move along.