Shirts Among Skins (Pretend City)

afterwards, drink don't think drive die

June's so late to foreign as is every drop of rain It's damp beneath her summer door and above her middle name 
June will follow May where ever she should lead They'll stumble through her bridal bits, Blah Blah Blah - The Bed of Your Rosy Hips
Now that April's ray is shining her moon is turning too She's dotting all the eyes with tears of rain and waiting here for June (So Fuck You And You And You) - Before The Month of Chance
I take the phone out my hip pocket so you can brush off the table. We put our drinks down with a thud a smash and a little tinkle. Then I sit down while you tie your hair into a neat bun. The bobby pin in your teeth is black and it's wet with spit when you smile down at me. I don't know, Is there any reason for any of this...
A pair of tall pants walks around you like she owns Brooklyn or at least half of its haircuts. I don't think she's ready. Her wings are still soft and cream.
You join me on the bench, You're soft behind your own damn ears. I've been waiting for this to happen for weeks.
Then what, I ask... Is Joanie moving out finally because I don't think you can afford that mess.
My pretend city is like the hollow arm of a chair all alone in its own house. The windows are a dentist that doesn’t know where to start. So what we plow out first is all of the purpose inside there and then we hold onto its structure. Its this that's as earnest as a day. All because narrative is a chain. In these cold days in any cold fucking truck anywhere, it's a cold fucking chain. Its door is as true as it is open to anything before it. There’s no quarrels or spit to purpose. The mistakes to be made, they’re in the corners and under the lip. I’ve walked around here, I should know these teeth and gums well enough, That's what you tell me between drinks.
Of course we'll see. Its not like it can only happen once.
So let's read comics...
An excellent idea. I'll go first, I laugh out loud. Just let me find one okay.
You laugh at me now. Next week, You start to say. But then you nod and turn your head away. Across the room the busy servers are collecting slips of champagne from the bar. The counter is wet like fresh painted wood.
I intervene, Instead of reading Ubu Roi to each other, what...
There's always candles and spoons and binders of wax They're down in the stacks with the April’s and May’s and June's in the back Bent over a bucket by the chair They're under the board  They're under the stairs - And Otherstuff

Done tussle Done team Done tackle and worth Raiment of busty absence Poesy Ohm for surly seventh This withered pot This buckle bow Damn down the lazy balls of green (insert dick joke) - Abundantly Poor or Bad 

We're standing outside the gallery in the hallway. There are two closed doors both with the white letter S painted along their edges. Its dim and I can barely make out that they're there at all. The two of us are waiting here like men do when we have a need. We're a queue of two, a prime duo. We’re damp and sweaty. So what do you do, I ask him.
Me, He asks in return. Oh I send out slides, He say's while making plastic noises with the cup in his hand.
So many boats adrift and rudderless in this sea of ours. They’re so shiny, I shudder a little in my long throat. Then I move an eyeball around to better see that his is mouth moving again.
He looks down at me and says, Oh, I do it way different. People and galleries and just about everybody that you can think of can get them. I don't mind saying it, I like to share.
Black Flag bangs it's way out to where we're waiting. It's like an invitation to face the decline of western culture head on but instead I say, Let me guess, you’re a painter a photographer or something with pictures right...
Oh never, I’ve only ever been true to Shelley.
Shelley... What Shelley... Truth is beauty, that Shelley...
No not that one. The other Shelley. The real Shelley of course. The alive one.
I ignore him and ask if FedEx is some New-Love kind of critique thing. Then I ask, If all the kids are Skyping about FedEx right now, then what.
What what, Then he smooths his dirty hair back. It settles into a slick mat that's tucked in behind his ears.
Yes I can see that, looking right at his trousers. Isn't it funny that your pants can be about position but they can't be about transposition until you've read about them. These are only personal projects. The summer's almost over and they’re not meant to last very long. This is irritating, I gesture down the hallway. But it’s better than the well vacuumed horse blanket out there or those brightly dented kettles left whistling and whistling and whistling. Not that many people here realize but why would they, am I right or am I right...
Because everything has meaning...
Is that a question or did someone tell you that...
They're only slides. I put them in transparent sleeves that I buy myself.
I suppose bread's no longer an option...

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