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Itching thumb
clinging to plastic,
growling
discontentedly
at the bland
beating of
circuits and screws.
Writhing
machine coughing
up liquid
coagulating on
the rims of
crattered humans.
Its the struggling
stifling of
itches that
phantoms
untreaded streets;
hangs around
the cigar shop;
wolf-whistles
at papered winds
and falls down
drunk, tired,
in that lonely
corner and sleeps.
Unitched.