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Something, something, something. Mannequin. Hambone.
Titleist, Atheneum, Zimbabwe. I appreciate the curs and geese.
Without the charm bracelet Monika gave me, I would be less jangly.
I wouldn't be wearing this black leather jacket had
Beth not given it to me. Birthday presents, Hallowe'en presents.
Charm and charming women. Charred women; De Kalb County.
Shared women, shards. All the people live in clapboard houses.
Kurds. Turks. Trade rumors. Murmurs and femurs. Tremors.
Abernathy lay in wait for Alexander, so history tells us.
But is it the official history? I would like to unplug everything,
but concupiscence prevents it. We need all the juice. Phone calls.
Are you shredded? After a long day of hammering in the sun?
Does the hotdog vendor wink at you, as if she knew all about it?
Does the taxi cab company maintenance man know all about it?
Shampoo can be warmed in a pot of simmering water.
Something, something. Esterhagen is not a real place.
Esterhagen is full of sundials. Manic-depressive hypocrites
join their ape friends on unicycle rides through the steppe.
They all end up at the same neon-lit nightclub. They are all naked.
Something in the water here tastes like fish oil. Something.
I am shocked at the timpany of my little hammer. Let's eat a timbale
and drink jugs of turtle beer. Let's connive like gay coroners,
to set aright all that has since shrunk in the dryer, to render
straight foundations crook'd, and to unnerve the central populace.
Ape your friends. Whip out a breadknife and taunt a mouse.
Terrorize, terminate, you silly old triathelete. Try, try, try.
Milk the soft minutes of your smoke break for meaning.
Look upon the rooftop of your erubescent neighbor's house,
scattered with hooks. Read books. Cook. Above all, look good.
You should. Racine said so somewhere, or Voltaire. Malfeasance!
Something, something, something, something; I have my reasons.
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