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:: Typical by John Bush ::

Learning against the bar and
caught up in half-lives,
I stare into the headlights of a time,
stone cold,
waiting in unhope, like Hardy.
I'm baked into this sobering drunk staring around in a funhouse scarier than funny.
(Tonight, the moon looks brighter than it really is).
A hapless parade of women, laugh-like--I chuckle like Jake did in Paris--
guffaw, shout, whoop, and stroke my dead deadness.
They live it up, circulate it into a sense.
They line up against the bar buying drinks for those who really care or maybe uncare,
and they all get loaded on an endless life that gets in the way.
These women are a glue factory
coupling liquid excitement and a crucifixed belief
into a steamy night
living by their impact superstitions.
This is where the fun starts and life ends.

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