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P O C K E T V A M P I R E I reconcile myself to need. To wanting stinging, aptest, seigneurial, pugnacious, handsome as always cracking wise in my blood things, I think—by pulp supply of roots or tearing teeth, and/or ardor for what I vow against but carry always like my secret self, the bitten bride, to rat-consecrated, moon-wharf glum’s glee in gotten-up peignoir dripping not daisies but rotten, long-aborning lickable black roses, the smaller the better to hide my privacy in: it’s pretty good getting, that bite I flirt but never stick my neck out for. Yes, Your Woundship. Would a quibble count? Just one lick? Damn me. Then, back into the bidden, unblessed dark with you, my tiny prince of dirty comity. Sin simulacrum.  Barresi pages:Layout 1 5/12/10 1:43 PM Page 29 ...

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