Sashimi, a pierced body, freaking-fast,
spun and inhabited the fall–
a dark wave junkie taped
to the skin of the wall,
a baby face, fresh collagen agent,
eating the decaying time with vivid replies,
brightening into the unusual blush,
the color of coral sashimi.

His silent partner:
his eyes, downcast,
mothered by symmetrical ash,
the shapes of sable kabuki;
behind him the block graffiti,
his Western alphabet soup,
more than enough slogans
and numbers to lose
in the fog of clove
and the mist of booze.


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