STEUER

“One day I´ll buy a folder, grow up,

become an adult.”

-Berlin, calls out in chorus,

while throwing the paperwork
back into the drawer

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down to a hall of phosphorescence

our backs are forward,
I stare at straps, white darker
than cotton,

each step deliberate,
heads forward, leaving to
know a direction,

your black cascade holds up,
the tones become faint
traces,

we smell of cigarettes, rolled
out of deep exchanges
and horse shit,

which after the corner are similar.
this refuses to be an issue,
entering silence

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bench

because of who I lay
my fingers,

cast them into the
tangles,

I can feel my bones
become like oil
across water

floating the surface,
unable to go
any deeper

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4/4

heads down/hands up,
hands down/heads up, eyes
shut to sweat, breath in a
break,

tendency’s like hips
which become 7AM, with the
floor emptying, as writhing.

being the same way
a step
back way but steep,

words working on pure syllables,
garbled paragons that have been
kind of understood.

given the excuses, but the
excess. stepping into the rain
still dark in day,

dry of detail
ears sing their death above
taxis, each step heavy light

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in particles

a some blurred road,
snow in drifts
from the side,

hers low on the wheel,
faint glow on faces cast
digital

which is a dulling thud;
an abstraction of thought that
grows thicker than heat.

lines of yellow paint, up close
sparkling to a crest.

the lot floats off with sound fading
faint with static leading to piano.

white with black eating in,
all skin becomes warm.
which begins

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tor

taking of what was left from the crumpled
pack, light, white while
pulling memory to the floor.

between the bricks where we wound our time,
there becomes a lack of denial which
is wanted, speeches on moving on,

of getting there.
you’re parked, locked up, two left,
my bullshit has gone thin,

still kissing him I can feel the what the fuck
from your side, wanting it to be your
dressed hip,

but we are humming beneath the
music. I’d like to skip dancing,
to start giving a break but my lungs,

each bit of inhale tearing like the advice
that comes deep with
tiredness,

which hasn’t even started to get on with going
deaf. running into concrete, my feet
clawed by few hands,

both are slipping in the torrents holding
stiff, empty in light pollution with a
blank cardboard chest below.

yet getting back, I’m convinced you’re standing
naked beside the bed, hands cocked unseen
in the soft-core of my time

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because, like beer…

no L.A. driving
music,

cull by the
shore,

there still is
a

sweet tired burn,
beside

the opposite hand
now

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