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Photo Credit: JR Korda/ unsplash.com

Once we realized

our filthy hands

grasped smoke,

such burning fuel

and boiling blood,

and all the tattered clothing,

the charred, smudged strips of fabric,

housing

Remnants of the Fucked Up Phantoms,

once

we realized

we salvaged nothing,

what else could we do but weep?

Born and raised in CA. Film, literature, music, poetry, mostly gay/queer/GSM topics. Stick around if I haven’t bored you yet.

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