VICELAND AD#102

Come on over here…another grab…another mishandled hand-off…roller skating through the bends and dips and gallows of circling…shallow as hell, still…and the mustache sweat’s in the paper cup of survival’s crankiest swallows…the fare on your share’s collected…busy as a body rolls…crabs for sale…take me as I never was and pound out the dents in my soul…hair’s just a mess that the fans make…the light in your eyes like strobes that make everybody dance a bit better…looks are everything…a seam in your surface adjustments…dearer pleats, clearer skin, wormier ways to slither away from hands that don’t hold so much as nab or somehow plead…forgive the elbows and the jostles and the goddamn pinball hips of hope…slip towards, not away…creatures of unforgivable habits, we lock eyes instead of arms, and ruin ourselves with untaken chances…dream better…live whatever lies work…give the finger to the orchestra…it’s baby-making weather and we’re all over each other and not having any of whatever’s masquerading as “it” around this here dance floor…snagged regret toothy and jaw-dropping and morbidly thin…so reach for that tawdry scarred payphone in scummiest alley of your heart and dial (646) 851–0347, because who’s got time to worry about some blue-haired boy named Death when we’re dancing?

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