My Mouth (is not a Mouth)

the hideaway       so many strangers

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drinking at the bar       dream alarm

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in my pocket       my ringless finger

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I wonder about her father       the hug we need

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brushing my hand       his skirt

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all the bright young things       dozing in my armchair

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my ear is my mouth       pascalle sings

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the aboriginal woman sits next to me       I eat my chips

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dirty bus window       wicked travel is closed

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the rhinoceros beetle is dying on the bitumen

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waft of shit smells like perfume, at first

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plants in the hot house       watering myself

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meditating stripped to the waist       the mind wanders

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my toes curl       clean sheets

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