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there lost in the riot of my own stupidity,

red & beating while the engine cools

& the sunset fucks off: nothing

 

is ever about a shared experience. such perfumes

jostle for position in ‘memory’, the concept album.

you could smell it the factory was value-adding

 

on cue the barometric pressure drops & you,

so beautiful when captured, even with gaze

averted, a preternatural model of engagement:

 

she sits on a bench an illustration of being alive.

stop sign graffiti as local route marker – my senses

specific & always at fault, giftwrapped like a gift.

 

is this an ending? i’d crave more abruptness &

a three act resolution. toes to mingle under cover,

a dawson’s creek light coastal wind parting

 

your hair, a final admixture of fingertips…

all just the anecdotal padding or

sticky tape or something else.

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