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O baby let your heart race mine
like a mill, like the rat, like the human, like the 3-
legged & sack at the company not-
all bailout barbecue, kiss-&-tell the shit from the shine-
ola, ole, I love a parade.
Let’s put up with each other always. Let’s
make much too much of the least little thing,
kiss it & make it squeal itself well
well well. Let’s wallow adversity,
pamper each other fat & contrariwise
tot up one hilarious scandal & scorn.
Death kicks every habit & bites. It’s a brat.
You could say that! Christen the jetski Heavens-
to-Betsy & roar the here-be-
monsters deep to Mandalay & Crete,
to the skirling edge of the castle of teeth:
into death’s whistle fling a red rose wreath.
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The vast hinterlands of the Global South’s cities are generating new solidarities and ideas of what counts as a life worth living.
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