Les Mots

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A dealer, a hero, legs are spread, corduroys at ankles, he's comatose sinking into some gaunt mattress. Windows shattered, where has the etiquette gone? Maroon curls tangle in the frigid breeze, eyes crack! After polite rejection to lace last night, his resurrection is painful, regret is worse than jealousy. Out the backdoor, through his fascist neighbors yard, pass the phone booth, walk. There on the corner of Wassuc and Main Street a Grand Steinway, ebony finish. He sits down and smells the keys, wreaks of a Christmas he never had with Daisy Buchanan, inhaling smoke exhaling dreams, White Russians kissing their lips, their loins. His fingers touch so gently, they were made to play, made to convert ecstasy to an everlasting sound. But everyones hearts stop, even a rhythmic prophet with acute leukemia.





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