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"whelp" (after aziza barnes) by zach blackwood

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Manage episode 197517050 series 1117673
Content provided by VOICEMAIL POEMS. All podcast content including episodes, graphics, and podcast descriptions are uploaded and provided directly by VOICEMAIL POEMS or their podcast platform partner. If you believe someone is using your copyrighted work without your permission, you can follow the process outlined here https://player.fm/legal.
my head is full of blood steamed like latte foam pressing open the seams in my skull, burning through folds in my brain like a shot luge. my head is the generating station in the delaware river, developed into luxury condos with beds that fill the whole homes. my head is a smoking suite with smoke stains in the corners of the ceilings and the ice cubes smell like the smoke stains and that is disappointing in an expected way. and i'm laying in my underwear in every single bed, rolling and sighing in the sheets and taking notes how do i feel here what did i do here how was the bounce maybe a man is there smelling sweaty or like flat champagne sticky about the nape and i like to feel wanted or at least i like to be paid what i told that feeling i wanted. or at the very least, i'm shoveling black sand into some deficit, punching out, and watching the direct deposit cartwheel in at 3am. i am trying to convince everyone that this is what i do, i lay in the beds and turn inputs to outputs and i go out with my friends when i feel like they miss me and i make wry jokes about my own self-worth and my lonesomeness and they laugh and i write about the things that they laugh about in language opaque enough that i don't even feel it anymore. and i am naked looking out a big window in a luxury condo where my spirit is hung on a bamboo hanger like a bathrobe. of course it is the 4am hour where nothing is provocative any more. i read a magazine article in some design rag about the fire hydrant pumping station across the river. without it, they'd never have built the station or turned the station into condos. the fire would have burned in the middle of the river and the lights would all ball-gag themselves. i feel very bad for the factory. does he like to gorge himself in big sucks and swallows from the river just so that people can tap it from hundreds of holes miles away? --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast
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60 episodes

Artwork
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Manage episode 197517050 series 1117673
Content provided by VOICEMAIL POEMS. All podcast content including episodes, graphics, and podcast descriptions are uploaded and provided directly by VOICEMAIL POEMS or their podcast platform partner. If you believe someone is using your copyrighted work without your permission, you can follow the process outlined here https://player.fm/legal.
my head is full of blood steamed like latte foam pressing open the seams in my skull, burning through folds in my brain like a shot luge. my head is the generating station in the delaware river, developed into luxury condos with beds that fill the whole homes. my head is a smoking suite with smoke stains in the corners of the ceilings and the ice cubes smell like the smoke stains and that is disappointing in an expected way. and i'm laying in my underwear in every single bed, rolling and sighing in the sheets and taking notes how do i feel here what did i do here how was the bounce maybe a man is there smelling sweaty or like flat champagne sticky about the nape and i like to feel wanted or at least i like to be paid what i told that feeling i wanted. or at the very least, i'm shoveling black sand into some deficit, punching out, and watching the direct deposit cartwheel in at 3am. i am trying to convince everyone that this is what i do, i lay in the beds and turn inputs to outputs and i go out with my friends when i feel like they miss me and i make wry jokes about my own self-worth and my lonesomeness and they laugh and i write about the things that they laugh about in language opaque enough that i don't even feel it anymore. and i am naked looking out a big window in a luxury condo where my spirit is hung on a bamboo hanger like a bathrobe. of course it is the 4am hour where nothing is provocative any more. i read a magazine article in some design rag about the fire hydrant pumping station across the river. without it, they'd never have built the station or turned the station into condos. the fire would have burned in the middle of the river and the lights would all ball-gag themselves. i feel very bad for the factory. does he like to gorge himself in big sucks and swallows from the river just so that people can tap it from hundreds of holes miles away? --------------------------------------- SUPPORT US ON PATREON: http://patreon.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/guidelines http://facebook.com/voicemailpoems http://twitter.com/voicemailpoems http://voicemailpoems.org/thepodcast
  continue reading

60 episodes

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