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bite, arch. ace. black and blue suede shoes on a battered chair. trains fly past, planes leave tracks. overhead: the last flight back crashes past the horizon's extent.
"that girl, she's death" i would leave the Sadie Hawkin's so early to meet you at some place real keen. i'd walk in, flip my collar back. lean against the cigarette machine. we could ditch the diner to trace the lines painted through the parking lot, say that the night's a tight-lipped tapestry of rumble seats and blacktop. i'd bum a smoke on the ride home. you'd say "you look just like James Dean" and i'd try my best to play it cool but grinning wouldn't help out my credibility.
let's call it a night 2:03. these hairpin encounters are killing me but hopefully (the letter i keep) i keep it all discrete (discretely completes my day).
nothing but passe pick-up lines you know that if i could, i would say something relevant. maybe i should at least mutter something halfway decent. oh yeah, real smooth. nice try. well... this stolen scene, it was quite the consolation prize.
and giving in, this is the first time i've seen past Conneticut.
cherry st. vs early night faux flourescent rays play canopy to the rhythm of a railcar while a 'coffin nail' pulls a trapeez trick at the corner of a pair of lips caked with gloss. solemn, subdued sighs subside to the city's lonesome silhouette as a stare is pryed from a dying sky to peer at two well done-up eyes caked with gloss. my side has been spilling in the street to different settings, but it's always the same scene: a breathless pause where no one speaks and a departure leaving both my cheeks caked with gloss. what a desolate depiction this is. we're drenched in cynical phrases, your sipping desperation, and i have blown one too many lines.
um... low car bias this girl, she's gorgeous. i'm talk belle of the ball. flawless in all respects. (whose short on breath?) fuck, is it that obvious? this girl, she's 'death'. you can tell that she's not feinting to impress... it's just not necessary. this may equate.

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