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He thrusts his fists against the posts

and still insists he sees the ghosts.

In grown, half-sown, lone men

grows a hate for love—a forlorn rage.

A clan of half-cloven, bleating cuckolds

throws shit-smeared spears

at the hallowed halls of not being a fucking asshole.

They do hate you.

Perhaps for good reason.

I think, perhaps not.