Thursday, August 11, 2005


With energy of cool clothes, you sing in that bar on Hillsborough Street, trembling the pictures of mermaids, marinas, forbidden midriffs, traveling the place of pale thighs that take the metronome down, that carry the painful prayers of synonyms. In the red encyclopedia, doors ignore you. With sleepless glimpse of your pacific shadow,the emptiness holds you like a sheer blizzard, the antique warning smolders. Warm surprises help the replies of the furnace. You blush easy with stain and science. You touch, blacked out with summer doom and the graveyard clock displayed in your sad voice. But where is the airship of drugs to melt your unknown torment?

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