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Show notesBeer bottle (and screwdriver) tactics,
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the passionate magenta comes out in blues instead,
climaxing into the speakers like unwanted strangers.
There's a man hanging by his tie in the coat room,
astericts and everything ( I though I saw him moving)
He's making men with his hands over the microphone.
Red bubble spotlight focuses the indigo
to liquid skin, routine hands know well the physics
of bottles that take out the infantry in drunk confettis,
one by one.
He hasn't touched his drink, it sinks away
in sips , fake age isn't what it used to be.
So I went ringless tonight, save a ring of red the
sweat of cups collected on the bar.
It hurts to know we're so similar, so similar
and so unkown to your poetry.
But I've got a collection of cigarettes
that I'll never smoke;
and you've collections of people
pressed in plastic-lined paper
like photo albums,
that you'll never know.