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where have all the anvils gone?

by the blunt force trauma

/
1.
preaching to the choir, set myself on fire, to fulfil some primal desire i'd swallow your entire, but you found a new supplier, now i'm a one time buyer stalked by perpetual rug pullers, no judge juror, just the executioner, but it's not like, i really understood her juggle bunk-beds with the butcher, who's married to the gypsy hooker, who, drinks her coffee with no sugar a drunken attempt, to undress & impress, & disguise the fact that i'm feeling depressed, because i don't know how to get it off my chest i want to talk, but someone bought and sold my voice box, now all i've got is chalk, and you're jackhammers on the sidewalk who pulled the fire alarm? oh god, did they cause any harm? oh what i'd do to be back at the farm where have all the anvils gone? withdrawn at the break of dawn, before, i could king my pawn
2.
a victim of her birth, a victim of the universe just can't find the words, that will cure me from this curse but i'm not so sure, i'm ready to leave your leather purse when things start to turn, it always seems to be for the worse a victim of t-shirts, a victim of everything that hurts buried in the dirt, dehydrate in the desert can't put it in reverse, just keep driving forward and pray things work i could never be a nurse, too many thoughts that need to disperse i hate to be a jerk, but we all stopped listening after the first verse a victim of his worth, a victim of his time on the earth catholic church will flirt, with hundred dollar bills and free perverts predetermined eulogies, of cardboard cutout misery that shadow keeps following me, eyes telling secrets i can't read self-fulfilling prophecies, of biblical snakes & ladders parodies that shadow keeps nagging at me, suburban commando trying not to get free how dare you call to have us, filled up with vitamins & thieves that shadow keeps staring at me, .45 revolvers pointed at your knees

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released November 27, 2020

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the blunt force trauma Ponoka, Alberta

a hunter hart thing

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