Thank you.

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
No, not the "Dido" song.

Submitted: April 01, 2008

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Submitted: April 01, 2008

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You’re like a knockout; clean cut, Shakespearean sonnet centerfold in a dirty magazine from the first row of a rolling, New York City street corner newspaper stand with chronic, heart stopping sparks like downtown’s biggest ticker-tape parade. The kind of girl who only exists on a pixeled picture; straight edged and glossy, two dimensional camera set, wearing a pair of eight inch, black high heels in an appealing position with the use of all her two hundred and six bones. But unlike you; she’s got an on-hand, church congregation, melted mess of colors to cover up her hangovers and unprotected sex and to seal her mouth with reds and yellows and to keep her face concealed in a Mueseum, life-like, clay pose when she speaks grammatically incorrect and misplaces her cons with prose.
The difference between a blonde-boned, cigarette, masked model and a girl like you is that you live beautifully.
You’re no exception to the nth degree, enveloped in a memory of bottomless pronunciations of expression.
Like a surgeon of misguided words who attended to my underdeveloped lungs, giving birth to my own virgin lips, sprung rhythmic frequencies of love. I’ve got a picture of you taped over the loosely, sewn seam to prevent drastic bleeding; a bleached clean, beach ball music theme feeling I can’t get out of my head, like the best, hand gripping Stephen King novel I’ve ever read. An unwanted, irreversible procedure stapled high like a sore thumb, lightning rod
of the biggest "Thank you" card over the walkway to your front door.

Thank you.

(Copyright)


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