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Leo Sayer can't talk to Stan Brakhage anymore

The bell in the seaman's hand, the incense, and the choirs nest are all together now.
Foliated and compressed drawn from beneath the water on the wet side of the weather. Bias has its own freedom, its own place that always matters more than this here blood. Open the line of this street down its middle. We'll wait this long night through the eye of a needle. The end. Whoa Oh a Whoa Aye...
I'll love you twice as much tomorrow, The clasp at the other end breaks. Mad as the moon on the moors, King Ovid-Pants agrees with me and my fingers fumble. The pendant slips its chain, sliding down between your breasts. It's like discovering amphetamines and Stan Brakhage on the same day. The day we marched up and down the length of my way way underground room. A bottle of Jack Daniels between us. We're not married to the ideas but we like the speed of it, The projector ticks and slaps as we admire the stately scale of the narrow wall from the deck my ratty ass bed.
We'll still have it all, My nerves are shot. They've been harvested from the spoons and a boneless side of teeth. Cold and a little blue I've begun to buckle and I sting. I reach for whiskey. An old bottle from a somewhere drawer that's been filled with keys. Let's sing us a song a radical song of release. Let's get these lines together, or I say that I'm breathing like a little boy again.
So don't turn this around, Oh ugh oh...

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