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My jawline is padded with copper for proper electrical conductivity.  

My lungs are lined with rose buttercream, and when I breathe there is an explosion of sprinkles.  

I am filling my body with fiberglass and polypropylene so I can't take on water.  

I am brimming with disposable income at the moment of our mass extinction.

All these theories of abstraction are making me heavy with unpaid search results.  

My purchase intentionality is pressing on my windpipe, and I feel so very swollen.

I want to squeeze myself into a walnut shell so I can be something more bucolic.  

I want to stuff dead leaves into an increment of old to really get myself out from under this panic  


My tongue is like a soft cloth clogging up the verbiage of suffering. 

I can't speak because there are bits and bobs and odds and ends and sundries of knickknacks  

inside me, and I feel so material.  

Like being poured into with the speed of dead parchment. 

Like being filled with all morning. 

I’ve become something crammed with the eastward direction of a love note.

I’ve taken to being compressed into a woodpile of rotting for the gentleman.

Being me is like injecting filler into a blueberry muffin.  

It's like pouring horse-hair into a bowl of churned butter. 

It’s like piping in the best beauty deals over the all-night shopping channel.

I am over-packed with plastic cutlery and non-precious metals, which suggests something  

brutalist is arising between us. 

My chakras are jammed up by the archaeology of breath work. 

My organs have been colonized unnecessarily by monochrome.  

My sales funnel is choked through by 700 irrelevant keywords. 

I have never felt more fulfilled.  

The miscellany shoved into my geometry is something altogether Mondrian.

Stevie Belchak

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