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The mottled man caught nothing of spondulicks while
cutting slices of himself
Hands became botched. He would turn inward on himself,
and fold out on someone else
Stones were bunted at him, one kissed him – it tasted sour
He went outside, and began walking to the east, south, then west
He came to a house, went inside, and saw a white room
He continued on as the night sifted in from the window
He went in, and saw poeple working out the day
He became one with them
Then he cut slices of himself and others,
and caught a jot of spondulicks

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