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the train i missedI saw his eyelids as he pulled them down over his eyes in thoughtand I saw the stars that danced before him in his rapt darkness.and I noticed that they resembled my stars too accurately to be overlooked.so I told him:"I've seen those stars, I am where you are."but his reply was muffled by a dozen passerby.I saw his fingerprints on the walls and the floorand I noticed that they resembled my own too accurately to be ignored.so I asked him:"what colour is the light that you see?"and it turns out his violet was my violet as well.so I asked him:"which train are you waiting for?"but he hadn't the time to reply.he'd run out of time.and although he was only a fragment of mineI've hope he will returnappear in another bodyor on another trainor on my other life-line.
roleplayingtoday while shopping for victimsI almost tripped over myselfand I fellto the groundat the mercy of the escalator.it caught (up with) me
coalesce.the heels lose the beatthe pot lights dimthe dj gives one last tired spinthe skirts and collars go homethe doors closethe sweat dries on the walls as fast as the descent of pantyhose ...and every night she disappears a little fur t h e r i n t o t h e li m e li g h t.
the pretty boysSanta's on my roof and its back to the dayswhen it felt like they were arm's length, but they're really always a tongue's length away.the Easter bunny's in my tubreminiscing about some old chocolate loveand its raining and its pouring and the old man is snoring and I cant see the light at the end of the dayso ill light this candle and blow it outagain and againbecause it's just like a day with you, always warmer up close, always a tongue's length awaynever closer.
eagle egohe keeps his eyes above our headsspeaks at us not to usspits on uswhilst salvaging his salivathat rolls all day on his hypocritical tongue.it must be tired; exhaustedlike his ghost.his ghost must be ashamed of the brain and the flesh in which it remains,ashamed of the skin in which its contained.does he just live up to his family name?or is it his own roll of the dice that moves him on through his game?its hard to respect a man who neglects the very people that genuflect at his feet. at his feat.he claims to walk in the steps of the man with the namebut it seems with each step he aims to creep closer and closer to fame.and that would be fine if he didn't claim otherwise.
awww"awww"save thesynthetic sympathyfor someonewho sharesthe samesickness.
party Ithe nightime nectar is dispersed in bulk atop the moist, budded loading docks, only then canthe loaded ships sail the walled ocean to greet eachother, and possibly share cargo. most would rather share cargo than cannons or conversation.
heroin the face of painthere are no herosonly paragon protagonists with scars.in the face of painyou'll scream out any nameif it means you'll be spared the mars.in the face of painthere are no herosonly passionate pathos.in the face of painthere are no herosonly even uglier faces.
contraband dancewe saw the blue moon's face in the water by the dockwe walked with eager steps, our breath skipping like rocks we talked of anything but until we heard the door shut. grey curtains covered the moon. then it spilled from our lips like the blood from our labour-stricken fingertips. echoed through our hips in slides lifts shifts. sifted through our skin like gin down thirsty throats. trickled off our backs ...