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writing prompt for 4/25/20


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  1. Oh angel covered in bird shit, why don’t you give praise? Why are you so still? Which stars capture your gaze? Are you a boy or a girl? I can’t tell. You could be either or neither, or harmonious or churl. Do angels have special friends that meet them late in the night? Do they ever get tired of flight? Does God get bossy and make them do chores that they hate? What happens to an angel that’s a reprobate? Is he/she thrown to earth by an angry master? Maybe the friends of Lucifer are now all cheap, garden plaster?

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  2. Joe—obviously this angel presents to us the shape of a boy. Your poem actually posits belief in the untruth that a male who doesn’t look conventionally masculine might be a girl or even they. Then again, I applaud that you linger in unknowing. Frankly, I would enjoy sticking my finger in a stud’s ass. Some men’s looks fuse angelic to underwear model. If we make meat, they should be the one to do the sucking. Joe, you mention bird shit. I revise: cock shit. I one-up you: patina of them droppings. MM, look at him—all stropping. With wings.

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