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I’m on a “date.” I reassure I seem obscene beneath the god,
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In this café, my boy, there’s an art to not looking for a man. First off, you’re wrong slowly, your book a smart prop, your mug again In the corner? Yes, here I am, an old, taking my little pills, drinking of someone just like you, to fuck.
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Hard maples, then. almost. Everything’s almost: Imagine this: late solipsism, of words. The end.
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1 So Kansas City tucked its cock, spritzed its wig, 2 Night. A heater groused, a fan belted out. Oh— 3 In the john, I focused heroically on the urinal cake; I tried 4 I fell for the Seville-style tile of the Plaza, the oldest 5 Fuck it. Let’s smoke a pack of cloves and play
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How nice: your guinea pig left you Someone broke the abacus; someone lost Meanwhile, in the back of your mind’s you’re seventeen, examining three black- in the last stall, for a man to drop his beads . . .
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Hart Crane, January 1928
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The purling fountains, drawling mockingbirds. Schoolmarms retired from Iowa along and querulous, side by side with crowds gorgeous to look at, and hordes of nondescripts seemingly bound from nowhere into nothing. |
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