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When Loneliness Is A Man Laughing, with a TV's blue-static figures dancing through the air at 2 A.M. with eight empty beer bottles lined up on the kitchen table, a full moon gazing through the opened back door, his thick fingers drumming the pink laminex, singing along with a rock video of soft porno, recounting dead friends, with a tally of all his mistakes in front of him, after he's punched the walls & refrigerator with his fist, unable to forget childhood's lonely grass & nameless flowers & insects, crying for his black cat hit by a car, drawing absent faces on the air with his right index finger, rethinking lost years of a broken marriage like a wrecked ship inside a green bottle, puffing a horn-shaped ceramic pipe, dragging his feet across the floor in a dance with the shadow of a tree on a yellow wall, going to the wooden fence to piss under the sky's marsupial stare, walking back in to pop the cap on his last beer, hugging himself awake, picking up a dried wishbone from the table & snapping it, cursing the world, softly whispering his daughter's name, he disturbs the void that is heavy as the heart's clumsy logbook. r69 from February in Sydney ...

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