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He holds his baby to himself. Smushes the outer limits of his cigarette.

cries like a child: not fatally masculine yet.

It's not fine to say 'daddy's testicles are ill.'

His manhood has swelled to bursting,

still science can never save what he wants the most:

Another cradle.

When his body is a hall for cancer - he's rancid.


Some gentle words from the room behind him.

And he's in; once again to his house and its bloody sin of assuming he should have his grapes

and not be so skinny.

He tries for a smile.

Long ago, he was a dancer, and wild when he danced. But now he moves like his heart has been lanced with a needle.

When he's in the shower, he holds his balls in his big hands and doesn't move.

He hopes they won't run away like water.

The End

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