dont we know
we're
all
cold
together
on
the
bottle
shop
corner
burning
for
a
hit of Love or fix of Ideas
under the same round moon
that
seems to MEAN something
with
its
gangster stare sneaking and creeping
street low
behind terraces
or
high and mocking in silver clouds
looking down at us
adding
up
pitiful
dollar-pounds
in
front
of
sick
blue
tv
chattering repition like dim dawn birds
in
the label language
of
cement concrete and city clay ?
moon over denmark from www. kimmatthiesen.dk
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