| He breaks the blackened window again
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| You’re peering through the barred and blackened end of a once and former window
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| There’s two gorillas in a hardly furnished basement
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| Rushing a hit for the phone number folks. |
| One’s on the horn with the famous,
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| begging for hooks the other’s
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| The other’s
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| Copying more self from a blank, with a buckknife onto an empty bureau’s back
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| beside them sits a rather cool sculpture of a hard bucket of blood.
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| Above that hangs a black and white photo of Einstein growing frustrated over a
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| sink full of dirty dishes. |
| The floor is littered with neatly traced hands,
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| shown in soft focus through the beautiful sludge of a couple hundred broke
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| open eggs. |
| A gorgeous spreading pile of tired little suns.
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| To the far left of the cell, rest the shells by a door, cleanly cut,
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| neatly stowed, side by side. |
| Each end set completely in its opposite half,
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| in its particular pit, in its original crate.
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| Note: none of these three good-life dioramas are ever touching in apartment bay
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| And from the looks of this place, it seems as though they’d had a visitor.
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| The ghost of landlords present and records past no doubt. |
| He told them that
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| because they were young, escape would eat them alive, but that they would be
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| able to sing, until they were no longer able to sing. |
| That is of course on one
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| condition: That they should still threaten for success at its secret and they
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| somehow knew whatever exactly all that had meant. |
| Then with a rip of a check at
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| the neck he crept back through the mouth of the phone and was gone |