3 girls,
after a century and a half of waiting,
prop up against tiles,
suckin teeth and fake leather,
yeh like w'ever.
immortal gum chewers,
nattering vintage plastic studs.
denim, double. bandanna. comb.
hunched shoulders and exposed bones
exploding in a tube
of high pressure air.
scalp pulled back
by the fierce atmosphere of the underworld.
the wind in the tunnel,
the wind in the pipes,
the wind in the vents,
making us feel so accompanied,
so alone.
we go into hiding,
in mirrors and make up.
laying it thick,
and sometimes thin.
the media, TV,
the powers that be.
a follicle deep zeitgeist
- no guts -
it's just dirt that won't wash off.
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