Sunday, 12 April 2009

Day Twelve

This guy with a hairlip comes in and says,
“I have nothing to say, except

We barely even move, as we’re too focused
on scribbling witty one-liners to each other
on MSN, even though we’re sat less than two-feet apart.

I think I hear that guy scaring kids on the street.
A non-committal breeze blows in, like the girl at the party
you can’t quite figure out, and get so drunk

you’ll figure the only way is out. “Did you see that?”
my friend types. “His lip was oxymoronic
in relation to the rest of his face.”

I spell out an ellipsis to show I’m thinking
but really I’m running through the alphabet in my head:

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