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104 words by attila written on 2011–05–12, last edit: 2016–08–04, tags: mexico, poetry ⋔ Previous post: The Anglosphere and its Discontents ⋔ Next post: Short-term open-source plans
My country is a whore and a butcher and a beast of burden. My country is a fire-cracker and a hand-grenade and a bag of weed as big as your head. Urchins and street dogs hide in cardboard boxes by the side of the road hoping her drunken rages will pass them over. There is no truth in my country and there is only truth in my country There is no hope in my country and there is only hope in my country. Life is raw here - no dishes to do that way and we only do the dishes for someone else.
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