waiting for a call….

turning poetry to porn…

flesh in an instant…

proclivities punctuated…exposed….

nothing clandestine….

romance….

no longer do we turn to Whitman…Leaves of Grass thrown out into compost….

tired…worn from the obvious…

plasticity…

injected with what…

generations in search of personality…settling for craft pints an’ small plates….

i hope there’s always jazz…piano trios at 3 in the morn…

coffee…cream…a buxom blonde who smokes…

i don’t ask much….

empty bookshelves…

turning poetry to porn…

waiting for a call….

 

 

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