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it’s the year of the dragon and last night I was breathing fire as I smoked a joint. In the kitchen was Andy warhol’s soup can art and in the bedroom skeletons in the closet. I closed my eyes before midnight, opened them as they lit the fireworks and watched angels on fire. This is the champagne pantomime. I’m being a poet because there is no other way to show it. Hot summer’s nights on the sweet, sticky streets that twist like licorice. The whisky drinkers in the sunset of another year, until my words fly south for the winter.

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