Two-hundred and Four: Bull Shit.

Red-light kisses that remind me of nothing at all.
Falling with no view of the ground.
This is the sound of something I had forgotten I could feel.
Seal this bitterness with lipstick marks and compliments.
Ignore French lovers because you don’t know what else to do.
There is nothing to give.
Live vicariously through your shadow.
Know that everything is temporary.
It’s all elementary dear Ted.
The cat is fed but who will pat her well enough for her not run away.
Run away in an aubergine gown.
Run like Chanel: a movie moment that can be lived for.
Four thoughts later and you’re sober, alone at home, zoning out to tunes
that should be forgotten.
I guess that twenty-ten is still a bitch.
I love her.
I act like a man so this makes sense.


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I drink, I laugh, I smoke, I write.

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