One : Two
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The door is a gate. The dead gate leads open to a meadow which presides over a fence. The fence is full of ivy, and blown brown. [Brown mirror, green orb, blue atom.] Beyond that there is a house, and upstairs, a small girl’s room. She is alone: Her fuzzy pink shirt. Her tie-dyed night-shirt. Which is to be soft. Which is touched. In the microphone, she says pushed on a swing by a man. Or organized by a train. Cottonwood, this late September, what is it that you want to see? |
Man’s dressing room. Squalid. No stars around. No room. Dim though an excess of flash. He is a pioneer, this one. You can hear him moan Lolita and when one comes he gathers her youth from a cup. She is soft and then ridiculous. She is a little drunk. She shivers, shifting from side to side on her silken feet. She is smitten like a witch. But then she looks like Dorothy Gale. Where are her red shoes? Oh Judy Judy Judy now it’s too late to fight. |