there’s a hand floating this way and that, with a cord wrapped/stretched
longlingly back… and creaky muttering into just wicked magnetic loops and
curls or whatever it is that digitalizes voices and sends them spickling
around the globe… chatter chatter chat. the boodle is so full of nackers.
last night beer was the drug of choice: to honor my friend’s mother’s accomplishment
of 23 (?) years ago. to your mother, I think of saying now, lifting my pint
in my mind’s. there’s talk of hockey which I sit silent; I like the pre-teen
girl screamers, lusting for their hockeyhunks to fight; other sportalk? can’t
recallit, all so similar. oh, and bartender, “cocksucker,” says. referring
mewards? can’t tell. don’t care. bring my pint, you bearded fellow. and he
drops my change in the barpuddle. mayhap doesn’t like my look, my outward
cover, conceals the deepself, those twisted pages of words and words and
words. and everyone’s chattering and there’s loud music, and to be sure
the ears only catch like every third or so. but that’s enough… I think.
and you only ask people to repeat themselves once: it’s so redundant. I tell
my little story. but the boy’s eager to get back to talking. so the story
just loses allsteam and blah blah blah. what a reludicrous…

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