The Violet Contact

I turn over at dawn./They bring jars of grenadine syrup./I leave a downtown window,/to seek fright at its’ sources,/dine on old bones:/sleep eventually leaves me./Bones lay in gesture everywhere/I dwell on the bank tellers’ lies./Those exact words/a sentimental poison/same as inmates, jugglers, and sweat hogs/ they need scenes with an audience./In a suburb of shining huts/ I kiss my beliefs in this vacuum./It’s a teenage jail/ in an unknown color/it vends wares surrounded by deafness.

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