Shiny guitars with drooping necks in the sun
Terrified trees that cloud get tangled in
Scabby babies with well-trimmed moustaches
"Doing the rounds, doing the rounds", replies the moon with a shrug of his shoulders.
Empty faces of hope which fold and unfold like handfans
Drugged up coats smother wearers in a fit of paranoia
Bellies glued, tattooed to the neck, my dear, where next from here?
My baby ranges from heaven in the face to a bubbling swamp depending on how the light falls about her.
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