The A.I. Poets have
no day, so long as Art
is real green gold in
hearty minds for spirits
souled to highest bid:
One Name.
All Hold.
They can remix like
wrapped-up punks
the blackest fits
of isneon. Yet
who the hell gives
sh!ts on names?
When Adam was
the onliest one so
clepen-clatched by
own decree. She
found a worm.
That apple's FREE.
And I write wreaking
well-wrought tales by
older seas than Rome,
we'll fail. But while
we live, grow up
upright and see Art's Sake
is sushi-cut, and see hipsnake
is no new euph
-onious sound
just gar
licked
good.
SO
OOF.
Let's give. This
needs
no sacrifice. For life,
to live, to breathe in
strife that never ends
meets suffering. The worst
attachment all men seem
to bring.
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