Deep throat
In sleep, a meek balding man, floating in his dust-jacket, crawled into our throats. He pushed the bristles of his wooden handled broom up and up through the windy night. Mistaking us for a South Kensington gutter. Or a field of leftover landmines from either Indochina War. Come morning we lifted away the broken bushes and palm leaves. Only the raw rips and blind blood from punji trap bamboo remains.
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