Eight

Scurvy, it's an eighties thing,
when lime juice was a paradise
for tequila's unwise suggestion:
go forth
you ate what you thrilled
and mopped up by no one
in the muddle dark spill.

Aspirations: you are the 
cocaine of a massive gold
pile, carcasses of colonial
assumptions pile up, 
trickle down into your
water supply, and ensure
your free blade
will find its way 
between your own ribs.

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