THE SATISFACTION NICHE

The authenticity of ruby birthmarks.
The attention of a dark-haired lady named Mercedes.
His growl, luxurious and legit, like international velvet.
Sound equipment destruction into sound construction.
The audio mercenary work of found sound.
The magnetism of graffiti. The beauty of kanji in neon.
Kimonos and the hot-house flowers that love them.
The French R. I love you in Welsh.
The pacman fruit: cherries, oranges, lemons, ghosts too.
An addiction to stationary, the thereness of it.
The helium highs after the lowest lows.
The fruit bones in a well-prepared sachet.
British weather, British beard stubble.
The cool down: the coolness that sweat gave back to the skin.
Nougat and dragée splintering workhorse molars.
Morning klaxons. Sheffield and Manchester calling in post-punk vinyl.
A kicker with good legs.
The revealing nature of a Kirlian photograph.
Those tough-touch Cancerians, sensitive crabs.
The fluidity of ketchup. those smash and grabs.
The ostentatious orchids.
The devil is in the cursive.
The resilience of a hydra.
The cinnamon; the same for pepper.
The geyser of a sleeping mate’s breath.
The inevitability of another hello.
The comme ci, comme ça– the inability to pin French down.
The flexibility of willows. The optimism of the California Poppy.
The staying power of good leather.
Smiling back at the lemon smirk of an arriving sunset.
The enthusiasm of a climbing squirrel.
The teasing and unspooling of the vending machine, a candy burlesque.
A crazy horse marionette.
The violet violence of the arcade.
The sumptuous guilt of the gilded casino.
The Roman Candle of his freckled array.

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