Turn Off the Lights, I Want To Go Home in the Fog

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a ferry, hull like whittled tulip bulbs—leaves—furrowing a ritualistic bruise—like taffy foil pinning the radiator gauges—of a bombed out pontiac behind the rexall—scimitars—sickle-cell casings—sated-full—past the seaplane buoys—where gramps snuffed out the last of his red cranes and went—screaming—down towards the lobotomized floodlights—deputies lashing china pendants—hollow combs fired—tried, hung—from the barbed noose of steamer baskets—bamboo laminate dissolving—hemorrhaging—dumbo blotter drinking glass proxatine—elbow joints, swelling crumb—capillaries braided—between my tongue—a shattered jaw—bloated thistle—plying smith-wesson-k-frames—the summerteeth that—god forgot—cutting—the juniper, balboa hills gone stillborn—black—like dustbin hypodermics—‘shuddupbaccalaureatekiller’—and the city begins to move—a speculator’s magento—gumdrops of stucco—smoldering gingerbread trim skimming—like a pepper grinder thumb—trolley bus vestibules poison—fertilized slugs—firing from flare guns—telegraph hill—luminous powdered mercury—safety-mark soles mincing approximations—of apathy—guts—octaves—too-young-too-young-too-young—severance—oyster shells hanging—garroted—above the corona necks atop the longshoreman’s bar—corkage suckling iridescence from centrifuges of budweiser eagles—wombs of double-plied induction tubes—cigarette vending-machines—surrogate the tunnels on treasure island, constricting—a aneurysm marrow threading selectric correction ribbon—codeine gloss—matte medium—latchkeyed through the grate—cicada wings—like catfish scales brushed with petroleum—stuck by capillary action—into the condensing asphalt



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