Nameste black Xlr.

Hitching up tea stained skirts for its ride out

Old black belts in their old Berlin bed shirts 

As a tattoo is etched and removed by thimble 

In a one swift move.

dropping genealogy prescription trees 

Pills for the dry cleaned dress 

It’s well rehearsed death scene 

and a Name change established over secret shakes

Amongst torches and crowned nest.
a XLR mast wired within tied hands of

Historic digital crosses

Always above watching with smiles 

on drawn out streets within the conservatory rules.
The closest some ever get to the conservitoire

The half mile of a Brick Tunnel full of flowers 

From a wishing well world.
Only to miscalculate the conductors sums 

as a third attempt at a counted start in on 

Birthday badge of one.
As we smell the whiskey cats that toast the death 

Of alphabeta they now use to serve and collect

Glass claw and then forget 

that spin dried life of a outside broadcast.

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