Blue Music Dream

Two bodies bound by wires make a pastime of the calendar

Two bodies bound by wires make a pastime of the calendar,

A room without windows offers us night as long as we want

y painkillers on the table, books on the floor, clothes asking for petrol

Hands in the dark room take on the idea of day happening outside;

The corner café of a small town, an old Indian woman

Looks at us, questions our morals, sells us a song of bad food.

The body lying besides itself. No expectation. This

armless chair happens to be our fort, we tear at each other like participants

in a masquerade of my tongue between the spaces no one goes.

At the tip of your tongue you offer me the tenth tablet of the minute.

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