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  • I've been told by this myth
    that a writer, sane as far as my standards are concerned, pukes artistry
    with pen and booze.
    I guess it works all the time, as I try to keep me "normal"
    while walking sideways and holding on to walls.
    So, I'm going to do it my way.

    I'm an adulterer and a mistress.
    I'm having a sheer and growing orgasmic pleasure
    with that infinitely round lips: brown and wet.
    My first time, you bet! The high clashing of symptoms
    of what's been called dipsomaniac.
    I'm still getting there, though.

    The ill-fated intimacy of him and me,
    and the growing illicit love-affair with another.
    Ah! Complications and melodious irony.
    I'd like to walk like this:
    right, left, left, right, right, left, stumble.
    Gets up, left, left, right, rides a multi-cab.
    It's addictive. Like marijuana. Like silly video games.
    Like love.

    Tipsy. Dies.
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