notes of laughter trickle through your black haired head like the sound of those wet shoes sloshing through a steam-clouded puddle on my street corner
cast-off wrappers read off hard rock anthems, their lyrics burning
back "hey shut up", i munch on my vinegar soaked hot dog, the taste of the nitric acid reminding me of those last summer days, their quiet images searing news flashes into my memory
"you're a star" hums off some street radio, and amidst the strobe-lighten waves of hands, a nearly drunk stream of jet fuel soaks the half-tired masses















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purple with infection
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