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Stay No Pen, Kit. The New Sense Nears.
An anagrammatic of Shakespeare’s Sonnet XXIX

How Ruin says ‘end’: this green face, new minted
to beaten yellow meat, cut lips, a sea
of blood and bile, my teeth reave sinews, crush at
a naked lump of flayed mess. No country,
no roi or king to help me. I see which mien
will take me; fetid, pissed, shrunk. I see him, his ford,
this hated crossing. I am past, remnants and      
hewn to a jot. Time slows, they can’t end it.  
Gun flames melt this ego, snidey sophists tythe
my inky hand  to lapse in hate. The tenth
try kills that gab. I eke a freak door in a
grave, graft sense to my heathen shill. Man’s sun
glows white, burns me red, the beef chars. My revolt
tastes hot, tangy with crimson. Hang the ink, etc.