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Burgundy Static Red scarlet spills mercilessly into my drink, poison tipped apple darts, chilled lackluster lap dances, spilled over for a cherry rotted pit, as it lounges lazily on my tongue, subduing the orange breath, spiked collars drilled into my taste buds, the mixing of flavors, of color over my eyelids. Daiquiri’s bleed like the television tube, a haze of colors focusing into a pin point, where the easy chair spreads out the cataclysmic drowning of folds, but I cannot find the words to spell out abstractions, as I stare at the painting on the wall, folding into floating orbs of colors. Art is the boob tube, the face of plastered models with monosyllabic drowning, and violent rampages of death on the news, hurricanes of plaster masked faces, while we do things no mortal man would imagine, flustered by naked blush, as skin interlaces with skin, angling tingles against flesh like a bondage boot heel. Radiation emanates flying fluttering moths of light, discs of dark before my eyes, drugged as though my eyes were wide open, stuck staring at the tube, the flicker of constant hallucinatory channels that make the martini glass salivate on its side, as though it was almost human, and as inhuman as I have become.
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