The Pursuit of Failure

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I break of the edges of the last house in this street and hear children voice their tiny white voices. Under a clear sky, a sudden crack, wisdom smells of forgiving lives. There was the kitchen sink, and over there the wall through which we could hear our neighbor’s laments. Late at night stinks. Eyes in your eyes. Naked fingertips waver over the skin like fabric of her pants, her panties; a cardboard tube full of smarties explodes. Eye in your eye. Forty years gone, and the pawn shop is still thriving. Yesterday Mr. Barnacle sold a Louis XV crystal glass full of tears.

The yelling started shortly after midnight. He wore the uniform of the Soviet army. He said, he lived in a train. She smiled wearily. We all know our Doctor Zhivago. Wait until winter comes. Tchaikovsky is perfect for skating. I always bring my cat, carry her in a fur bag. She keeps me warm and she purs in sync. That was what she said. But she was thinking of how to write a song about anger, and still be lovely and beautiful and sparkling like a dying star. A dying star, that is what she wanted to be in her next life. Or a twin star, together with Shakespeare. Roaming low in a jewel jet.

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Pins of Arab origins on a false afternoon. I get out on the Pommer Avenue. See my shoes hit the pavement. Pavement is pale with cold. I fear to breathe. It is so cold, it will slice my tongue, tear out my voice. Yet I feel reassured when I see my shoe hit the pavement. I could have died here today. You could have died here today. Both of us. The waiting hour strikes a windy road towards the river. Aren’t you cold? Alarm is a punishing effect. I weep the sky once more. A big ladytron smiles. Then, suddenly, you, and darkness fell on its knees.

Prince of Arabs pins fatigues. No entrance around here. Sit in an uneasy chair and wait. Annoyance squeaks. Water holes. Strange people in the kitchen. I flurry fish on Salomo’s flute. And wish those books behind me could shut up. Never your fingers on those pages. I you never. You knew that. Ferries cross the river. I could see them from my window. Winter came and my vision cracked from side to side. I used ducktape to restore the view. One night the wind was called ocean. It burst into my bedroom, covered me with the stars. I thought our universe was made out of black glass.

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Chuckle chokes, or the misbehaviour of a necklace. Oranienburgerstrasse, view on the golden roof of the synagogue. The lovely girls smile at passengers. A black car with a tomato hat. I could see her now. My coffee had gone cold long ago, long before my ink had dried out. Still, the words of my letter hadn’t vanished. Then you came in, looked straight through me, probably didn’t look at me at all. The tropical plant behind me was truly beautiful. I was your book before we learned how to breath flames. Coffee stains. Satin cap. I should have ordered hot chocolate instead. Go to Africa. Reinvent 1943.

Tired of moving through layers of time, cheap beer and a harpsichord, I hide in this sofa. Tiny glue. Tiny city. Dead flies on the bottom of a coffee cup. Do you know at all what my hometown smells like? Or the rain when my hair gets wet? I under formers. I eyes covered. Gangrene. Headless Siamese twins lie back. Lie down. A dog comes for a wake up call. Wake up in the middle of the night. You not. You here. Puke on morning dew. Hangover appearances of new life drown luck. Hue bliss. I wish I could hide in my self. I wish I milk. But you no. You never no. A sniper love caused this fire.

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