Pure way of the afternoon. Apple slices arranged on Sottsass platter and sprinkled with a little bit of lemon and sugar, as if a bird came, and sat on the windowsill, and opened its small mouth to receive me, tripping over its beak, I slide down, and the sticky walls of its throat reverberate a single word.
Gliding over low skyline, through hot clouds, falling apart, soft and flaky, like a fat scallop, seared in butter, thin mushrooms, baked in their juices. Beans soaking on the kitchen counter.
A girl jumps into a kiddie pool. Backyard parties, amps thrown into the overgrowth. Weeds sizzle, wires cross in the microphone, my ice sweats in a tall glass. I do not have a song, my song is:
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