I have kept with you down wobbly days when dormitory walls threatened my head and knees down these vanilla days of my sisteres secret life unrealised in exile on the golden isle the whoosh of your wheels and the dead scratch of your stop mocking my eye-on-the-horizon adventures (to pluck the princess from her B-movie high-school-boyfriend) [The mountain, barrelled-down, long ashphalt streams, volcano-like, leading to the swelling musics of our cinematic triumphs, shadows our presence here, down below, in our graffiti tubes, and musty intermittent pools, the provence from whence we curse against the power Warm as over a fracture, your elegant hand, translucent to the touch, as those days fallen so far from the tree of half-pipes, those days when the fog of blood in front of our mouths our parents aroused, a swamp of cops dogging our fierce sport, which never dawned for me, though I swore vengenace to the author of the bullet which slipped into my brotheres brain, your hand leads me to forget that moment when my prayer evaporated without reaching the half-shell You arouse in me not fires but splendour aerial and not so aerial weaving, the daredevils book along the earth the wind plays like a puppy in their clothes WOBBLE WOBBLE WOBBLEBirth sign: Not entered
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