Do I want life along with so many
conditions, me who is so defenseless.
My otherself stares before the mirror
and pushes through another domain:

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A few lap dances may fit in: I love it.
The way all these witches kill each other!
​How jealous they are because of me!

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Can’t take it anymore. This distillate is too raw to me.
The beast wins out of beauty.
The scale goes off balance.

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Let’s say: I’ll tell you. Let’s say: You’ll listen.
My dearest!
You congregator!
​How should I use you?

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Where am I in my body?
Without a body? I don’t know. Imaginary blue
like an imaginary sky.

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you are to be compared:
you resemble me.
Your shining eyes
seduce and repel me.

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They’re hanging in rich clusters.
He’d hide in one cluster, but
someone knows who he really is.

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He sticks to her body,
pulls his weight to her, in his body,
​He’s tense inside her. He sticks to her.

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Yet she never laid an eye on me ever.
Her place is in a peep show
Where she’d enjoy the sight
alone without stakes.

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When I was beautiful with hate and around-around / When
I was beautiful with hate and the implanted heart of the Snowqueen and I still
​wasn't absolutely his / When I was beautiful with joy and around-around

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To be a sad empty vase
to be a withered flowergirl in a vase
to be a tiny microphone
to be a crawl upon a shoulder

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He tries to come, in vain.
He jerks me off
as if I were a tired
personal object. I imagine
the rest.

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White hotel. Where sin is absent. And
so is guilty conscience.
You languish.

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I was getting down
to basics,
when the telephone
 
began to ring.

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Then came the odors.
The badly installed roots.
As corpus delicti.
On the operating-table.

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Wandering tired lady aristocrats
Baronesses choked by their own shrivelled hair
Mannerism rococo Art Nouveau Baroque
Gothic laceneck serieses. Nothing but foolish
​Young ladies.

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Should I presume mine inside it?
Or does it reflect its soul onto me?
Can it be otherwise? Who knows.

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She seemed fidgety
they said
when she was first revivified.
Did she want that I wonder.

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Act natural. Thrift shop for used clothes
by the pound. The colored smell 
​of poverty is leading the way 

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How many women!
How much time you’ve been given.
How many borrowed charms have been shattered around.

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All we’d need is such a power in the hands of a compulsive
narcissistic megalomaniac who worships himself
knowing he’s not good enough, so he must
distract himself by rejecting even the thought
of right and wrong, forcing the world to comply

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As I dip my mind in paint and write
a colourful and creative muse
visits my canvas to illuminate
​it like a starry starry night

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The figure announced
That he was the spirit
Of Jack Daniels
And had a message
For Sam Adams.

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Was it even plausible to think
with that figure and that face,
Marilyn Monroe could succeed
in 1950 as something more
than the girl on the subway grate,

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Having shortness of breath and chest pain,
I thought ‘heart attack’, but
no
only arterial heart disease,
​same as killed my father

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We wink at the crooks, our remnant like that
anvil we keep tossing each other, our
residue like saluting. We clutch the
banner of a warrened world whose tunnels,
unsolvable, incarcerate, swelter,

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Who needs these black cloudy sheep
Who needs this clanking cease-fire 
Who needs these empty sky calculations
My sky is empty with the fullness
​Of this some other week’s skies

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for toxic willow pageants   
cascade merchants align
 
     cranking out
     their crude ultimatum

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             Give him a fake phone number.
Or better yet, a fictitious jealous boyfriend.
  Toss out the phone number, but keep the cash.
Always get 20%
                           or more.

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Your dream will be short,
like the smile of a pretty girl
which gives a little more hope
​if you can go further.

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you’d lived life beyond most norms 
of social convention, 
meeting the challenge of restrictive forms 
​though hinting at mortal rendition, 

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Karim Wasfi,
the renowned conductor
of the Iraqi National Symphony Orchestra,
takes his cello to the sites
of some of the Baghdad’s
most violent acts
and plays.

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A female delinquent spoke. She described how her male beast was a cock artist. “It lives inside my brain. A Twisted thing, it tells me its secrets – dirty and unclad it hides behind objects and silences. It satiates victims for amusement.”

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preceptors of sheltered cause
and promised libations
 
plexities aroused
​of a yearning to bother.

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in a state of des(re)pair  our crawling forward blindly to nowhere  
at a tipping point too often chalk outlined   Vitruvian-
splayed post-
mortem on an urban city street   made to feel the press of hot asphalt

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up and down the street,
some pay with a bruise on the face,
a blackening of the eye,
a few just hide
from the fake storm

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angry, fierce
with pockets full of bullets
and cyanide capsules.
There were just not enough
of either.

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