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Portrait of a Young Man as The Artist
Promise land
I am the promise land.
We are barren husks,
dessicated people
on an apocalyptic horizon.
We built my cities from
spears of military destiny,
and exist in hollow shells.

My promise land is built in a day;
it will come without struggle.
It will resonate with pushed buttons.

No harem of virgins to slake thirsts;
only tumorous clouds and
endless vistas hallowed
by nuclear winter. The only survivors
are the skeletons in our closets.

Current Mood: creative creative

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