sodium carbonate & daisy chainsaw weddings
i drip down i-95 stalagmites
one hundred miles an hour to New Mexico
beer stein lace-gloved hand
chugging – on my Ibanez
she knows the chords
(i do not)
to some angry streetside punk tune
that sounds like last summer
and tastes like forgotten crushes
– you know, the ones that fall upon your tongue
every night
every trash can broken glass lower class night
and die in your dreams
before every starry morning
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