Too late to spin the bottle, balance the ouija board,
Give us angry kisses in rooms.
Memories of television newsreaders we had forgotten,
And silk hosiery, the femme fatale's lipstick-
Her vampire mouth.
I will bottle out of this horror movie.
I will watch fake blood pour, hear the silly screams
Until i dream... and march out on the fuller, papery street
Where bums still drop in paper diapers, pursued
By hot winds, and night, like mother, calling them home.
I could search all night for a phantom to equal my heart's-
"There are no words to express it. I am naked".
I whisper this in cheap unconscious 1950's rooms,
Bleeding like a pauper Christ,
Crawling back to oblivion,
Via the broken elevator.
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