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walking around
music burning my ears
playing so loud
eyes glaring
like i’ve seen a dead body
or have just fallen in love

i love you, mon parfait
please don’t go
bite as a kid might
allie april, june butterfly
bite just light enough
love is best when it is not quite criminal, but just
to smoke is to place a period wherever you are in your book of life, the finite shreds of paper in this compendium, this mortal coil we selfishly share, we drink and drum through. that is how the act is best used, in my opinion. it is to say ‘onto the next sentence, paragraph, or chapter, or whatever.’ it is to bind and to burn. it is to wave and to cleave. it is a burden and a blessing, a prayer for this and that paragon we have just encountered. she sings on the terrace. she sings through the boy and his trembling lip. sang through her cigarette.
a beautiful picture, the perfect film, shot with the most revealing camera; it cannot match this sequence—the finite stretch of tape you and i, and everyone who has had a chance to audition, abide on. it cannot match the evil. it cannot match the good. few have inspired me quite like you, so thankyou. may you find a warmer hand than mine.
soak the smoke away
part the *****
meet your mom
good impressions good

you smell sweet
you kiss me

i love you
small thang
let me hold you and
let me tuck you in

i wanna feel your love, babydoll
lets do this every night
how soon her beat wings start to fly
in technicolor-spin,
first the reds, then the greens...
how can she have so many things

out of the pages from a book this old man writes in his bath,
reads a warm fire to sit by: to tickle

how soon her day cleared for a pretty boy

the same could be said for
all other characters in his book
the same could be said for him

but he never quite understood
what she ever wanted

to fly or to fall?
i love the way your mouth moves
for the letter m
i love your watery eyes
for the high notes
and i love the way you smile
when you see the crowd
reflect in stripes
on my cheek
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