The Darkest Day, 2003

For a moment, the rafters seem like a good solution. A needle in the eye of my head. He speaks with militant precision, and orders the yellow roses special, his loitering is meant for me. Cold, damp bricks beneath our feet keep our dicks in place for the time being. The only type of city I can imagine is one that collapses. Spiked auburn hair, fidgeting fingers and bottom lip. I’m as useless as the day I was born, the only difference is now my heart knows it. What apples and cinnamon do for pie is what fuzz and sapphires do for my eye. Damaged art is art just the same, or trash. He plays Dancing Queen, and the walls of my stomach make a fist. Runaway din from shiny black boxes make his body wince, and he says, “I wish you’d paint me more fucked up.” The element of surprise costs a fortune, but it’s free to those with a Golden Ticket.

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