The world is a gangster.
My throat will not expel you.
Your roads will be desolate.
The phrases are a forest
One avoids by not reading,
The only woods still growing.
They’re gathering in our skulls.
Sacred, vulgar, dangerous.
Their branches are never bare.
There’s no escaping gangsters
And gods in these woods, unless
You’re dead. If you’re dead, the roads
Are desolate, and no one
Shows to rob or send you home...
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