dead drunk dublin and other imaginal spaces
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d e a r   s t a l i n

t o m    w r i g h t

Couches made of string collapse into
Walled light-slits of bed-time
Soviet memory echoes
Hello you bastard he said entering home
Train-tracks meander the riverside of mottled skin
The train is grit
One pair of broken Shoes dangle-dance nonchalant down oaken stair
To the beat of proletarian jazz
Inside-Heartbeat reflected in the mattress
Silence is not shattered, fragmenting of its own selfish accord
Gentlemen! We have become the sky
And are no longer comrades.



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