Out-ride

Twelve seconds stubble irritation skin
asks for a better handle-me-with-care
system.
The inside is the outside from within.
You certainly might call me 'idiot',
I kissed 'em,
it's so immediate.

A private dick out on a confidential lay,
incognito. Like places on the back side
of the road map.
Away.
The going-to feels better than the out-ride.

Most brazenly, and adequately too,
I declare this life, and this name,
and this game, up.
The gain I spare. This birthday pony would out-ride,
and that.


2020.


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