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DANIELLE PAFUNDA |
Dear Diarama
In the cavern at the back of the stage.
In the catwalk slick with tongued batteries. In the hour after the hour has passed, a lark
in which I insert
lip. Should the others have watched the
Donahue, then we’d all have known the gruesome twosome made possible beyond the
slat of the wettest park bench. As for
just my slender whip of know-how,
it couldn’t have cracked. Have crooked in arm the wetted studious
bowed canker.
Dear Diarama
Love me, chupacabra, love me. Grift
from first. Chill wrought from finance, ripped from wrist to
tender. They say it sopa
isn’t soap, ropa isn’t rope, and
butter is mean to kill you. What niece across
the border, egg yolk on her lip. What
barb freed from the wired, honed and hitched in pocketbook,
until such time. As she be so. And so, my assignment.
Dear Diarama
The joint flared.
Keep look out, I had meant, but round
the corner with a pungent spray and a stiffening feather. Resin for my cheeks and chin, chirped
and pinked the dime store poultice, flammable screech of lace on the buttocks
of every fine quarter-hour. For it was
the playground, for it was the supermarket
roof, for it was the train track on which before the train I took your cock
from its nest
and fathomed it with my finger lit.
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