the lynch manifesto

hanging obscenely between tree trunks
swinging balls of strange fruit, 
it’s hang-time in jordan pumps
dead heads, cocked to the light, 

from the mite rafters 
come squawks like seagulls 
raining shit juice on worn walls
on gummy foreheads
lost a muthafucking medal for staying true 
rued even when the strays stay starry

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