Take any apartment block and stare into its empty eyes;
behind the curtains,
past the stud wall kitchen and into
the bedroom,
they’ll be a couple copulating in
the afternoon sun,
below on the sidewalk
strip, no-one knows of the
grip they’re in-
a vice tight hold of
infatuation:
in-fat-u-ation,
beyond this,
after the ***,
the lovers will sit and read,
bleed out to Benzedrine;
puncture parecetemol to avoid headaches;
mess with the myriad marijuana;
raise the stakes and place everything they have
on a red seventeen and hope
they’ll come out sane in the morning haze.
Take any apartment block and stare into its empty eyes.
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