The placenta is not a bill of rights nor is it a right nor is it a right misinterpreted.
The placenta is not a machine but is the machine’s thought.
The placenta is not ad-blocking software nor ad-blocking hardware nor the ad nor the blocking.
The placenta is not an arranged marriage nor a teenager.
is not clap nor hiss.
not the hoof of a deer nor the bedroom of a fawn.
The placenta is not the intimacy of boredom nor the sacrifice of influence.
isn’t drinks at the club or a pejorative embrace.
The placenta is not a football nor the skin of a pig nor the word football as understood to refer to different sports in different countries nor the object of the game nor the single constant the game demands.
is not a pair of boots in the mud nor a river owning the middle of the night.
The placenta is not a poem fka “The Placenta Is Not a Superfood.”
The placenta is not standard arithmetic.
The placenta is not ten miles northwest of Richmond.
The placenta isn’t season two of that BBC series you love and and are finally getting a free evening to indulge in but whose introduction disappoints, dissuades, sorely tries your patience.
isn’t the air breathed nor the bullshit that follows.
The placenta is not the designer nor the approver of the design nor the gusher of endless praise.
The placenta is not the face, the body, the consigned organism.
The placenta is not the fear of facing the face it’s not.
is not the waiting for itself to arrive.
isn’t the waiting nor the landscape erased in the light of arrival.
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