Horses hang on these walls
like spit sits on ice, flat &
shit slick. Five hundred fatter
& can dig a hole in a bottle
big enough to sleep in. the fan’s
buzzin’ my song & whiskey
legs around the glass
like a thoroughbred, kicking up rye
to scratch his itch, his itching
to scratch this itching nose.
ignis sacer seizes skin
grand mal petit morte
jamb de la mouche
burying
like a breeze through a screen.
(can you see the light
seeping through cigarette burns?
can you hear the projectionist
suppress a sneeze?)
Scene : Warner Bros. Production Offices
Jack Warner :
This film’s
got legs, boys.
Let’s light a fire
under her ass and
watch her
run
:
intraoffice fees epistles lost & found.
let her watch her leg her way around.
stalking runs her ass into the .
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