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Monastery Over the Garage: A Canticle for a Rented Room
You fling your hurting soul against old walls
Those peeling walls presume to fling it back
A wood-roach scuttles across your hopeless hopes
Through cigarette-ashes of eternity
The wreckage of the past a pile of books
The bleakness of the now a cheap tv
Unheard in the humming of electric strips
Unholy unpostolic poverty
There is no insulation against tomorrow
But the Poly-Perk blesses your cup of sorrow
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