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CONCRETE MEAT PRESS
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e-chapbook 001 Michael Curran - page 1
Little Wars
Tomorrow’s child learns that roman candles only offer brevity.
Their torn packets scattered, labels floored, as drunk as the moist morning.
Those men and women, the lighter holders, the night before, not settling for the ordinary.
Tomorrow’s child, stuck at his desk, stares at his teacher— the night before confuses him; her laughter, her magic, like the roman candles, over.
The bell sounds— the children cheer, to tomorrow’s child, like war victims.
Made It
Hooded, we shake hands, You’ve made it, he says, then turns his shoulder flicks a hand and I follow him, laughing, laughing.
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