THESE DAYS PEOPLE like to talk about having sex and tasting
that hard cock with broken hearts which whirl around in their rib cages so they
take a swig of alcohol and smoke a cigarette and then look up at the stars
which remind them of his eyes he was always so beautiful I traced his spine
with my fingertips I kissed his clavicles and I cupped his sorrow in my hands
and his veins bled ink because he wrote beautifully and sent letters and sipped
tea and petted his cat while he sat on the other side of the cluttered room and
watched squawking television and he had a beer in hand and was totally wasted
and his breath smelled like whiskey and sorrow and there were old books on the
floor the birds were singing outside and their memories were swept away by the
ocean and everyone was in love - almost everyone was guilty of this at some
point.
(The previous was written in a post-narcotic induced state
in the middle of the night. Management apologizes for any inconvenience.)
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