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Night AirThere's a heady feel to it as I crane my neck and lean out of my bedroom window. The cool air brushes against my bare arms, making me shiver, but I only lean further into the nothingness. I remember doing this before, at the house of some long-forgotten family friend. The night there was endless in front of the window melding with the North Sea, and only when I leaned out from the waist-up could I see the lights of a city or town south of the river. The air was fresh, clear of pollution, but had a salty tang to it that was addictive and made me want to draw even more of that air into my lungs.
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The air here is polluted, tainted by factories and peat bogs, but it is green. It's green because it smells of fields and forests, of fresh-cut grass and perfumed pine trees. Sometimes it smells like the metallic spice of factories, whenever the pixie dust of the industial estate is blown in the right direction. In the summer it is foul and reeks of the peat that farmers spread on their fields. I
crystallophonethere is a punchcard sin
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like a queen of spades smoldering in an alley.
you hear how the gears churn,
singing faster than we did before
back when black magic dropped like a
pair of socks from the sky with supplies
taped to a note that said
(oh, look at you now)
such a beautiful brain:
runs on gasoline?
have a gallon
or we can call it a balloon,
and a new pair of glasses
for your tapered eyes
(you peel the bark back on the logs,
but you're not sure what you see),
and life says,
either nail jello to a tree,
or keep your
icicles hanging from the eaves,
caterpillars frolicking in the ashes,
your 'Sam, I still don't have your number,'
and your totaled passion:
someone to hang inside out with,
string you up like a steak with.
what the hunger
is trying to tell me
my brain churns like butter,
my insides aflare, my chakras combusting,