running for air, he sped lean on thick lawns of moss
and clover, felt green streaks of quiet amidst Catholic
terror and panic, constantly looked over his shoulder
for what he wasn’t certain but nonetheless the shadowy
gent behind the shower curtain pierced his mind with shards
of red rain and black vertiginous thought, blocked hard his
deep needed rest and thus blessed the tormented fat boy
with swirling unbidden currents of paranoid story and
crimson iron saturated droplets of grand murderous glories.
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