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John G. Hall

 

The Oxford Road Arcane 6

Me and my broken mouth are not worth listening to, so
listen instead to the dust and dazzle of this evening's constellation,
to the jumping jacks of our hearts, to the beating mantra of the waves,
please do not listen to me and my broken mouth, while miracles happen.
Dream, and she didn't know why, was trying to get inside her, busy
showing her each night's good time, she was a different blonde every
sleep, a dizzy orange plastic horned space hopper chic, or a sabre heeled
black veined heroin smoker stoned bitch, in the morning she looked found out,
a bit part player in her own dreams, floozy faced actress yes, but capable of flight.
But there again me and my broken mouth are not worth listening to, yet
you listen to the wash of chemicals that flood your nerves, the salt pecks
in the paper cuts, the senseless deaths disinterred and reburied forever, hurt
being up close to you in the nightmare, you dancing with grandma, remembering
daisy chains and the first hard coming, a boy's tongue curled inside your shell,
the snails trail running down your leg, loving the holy trinity of three sexes in one,
but do not listen to me and my broken mouth, better the sacred sound of your own.

 

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