while you help me find my shadow, you lose yours
like in some stuffed up Asklepious dream
where it is Holofernes who cuts
off Judith’s head and so
the courageous suffering
woman dies instead
I stumble across your room
knocking piles of records down
trying to ignore the feeling I’m in a
well lit Howard Arkley painting
(god, why does he use those colours?
they make me ill)
And where were you when he tried
feeding me a line from
Casablanca?
something about ‘all the bars in the world’;
it doesn’t matter, he wasn’t even wearing
a fedora while he was saying it.
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