Bathrobe. The big girl leads the band. She is our leader, she kneels to us, there is a certain slapping in her big forearms. Boiling soymilk bath and instant coffee. Hello woodwinds, hop in.
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She steeps in shells of our string meat, the big sweet acorn squashes. Pray, slit a high school oil painting—it sucks up so. It embarrasses. Pull its canvas to a big bonnet, and her head blanches and rolls like our band's big timpani.
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How's that shiner. The terrycloth tobacco-stricken. The motel bed, big girl in her bathrobe. She empties spent cigarettes in her pocket.
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Sadly, sadly, the motel room wilts. Ice in the rosewater: when it melts, it is tap water, and it is cold. She invites us for a fondue of furnace spittle. The big girl. Pray, hot wax treatment, pull blue salt across the leg. Uncross 'em.
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Those whores. Our oboe reeds litter the alley. Leak saliva on the yearbook and don't ask questions. The painter's nest spit-burned and choked in apple, the big suckling pig.
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Just so, release the spit valve. Come drunk from the billiard room and don't ask questions. How's that shiner. Still life with big girl and pool cue.