BLUEBOY
What is it going to be, my friend? The seat at
the glass-lined table, with the doilies and the
drinks? Or the one where the shepherd sits,
barely there but watching the sky? Your choice,
my hunkering man, my vain acquaintance.
-
Perhaps I should speak in tongues : abla hama
ablatos shima. Did you get that better? I only
wonder now because the late-night light, I see,
is still blazing in your wallet and shed.
Otoros mayne imara tui.
Otoros mayne imara tui.
-
Your eyes bulge. Your throat is chafed.
Your hands are broken in pieces. Your
chest is porous, like a hole. I see your
manhood withered. Your eyes are but
sockets now, wherein nothing lives at all.
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