The mongrels maul the phantom

The rug cushions the marrow-dust

The fog drives the cry of the bells

The stench of the necropolis whirs

The clocks snicker beneath the speed

In front of the distance, a heart welters,

And my fingers still dance
in the dirt.

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About RG Foster


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Before his wretched demise, Foster expressly asked for his works NOT to be published under ANY circumstances.
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