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sweet nothing: lullaby to the tune of my baby who still believes glamour is real.

sweet nothing: lullaby to the tune of my baby who still believes glamour is real.
There there now, Nothing.
Stop your sniveling. Stop sifting dirt through your fingers into your glass of milk,
A milk still white as stone; whiter even. Why don’t you finish it?
We’d better be getting on our way soon, sweet Nothing.
I’ll buy you something pretty from the store.
I’ll let you wear the flower in your hair even though you can only vanish entirely underneath its brown, implacable petals.
Stop your sniveling. I can almost see the all night diner looming
Up ahead, with its lights & its flashing sign a testimony to failure.
I can almost see our little apartment under the freeway overpass, the cups on the mantle rattling continually—
The Mojave one way; the Pacific the other.
At least we’ll have each other’s company.
And it’s not as if you held your one wing, tattered as it was, in contempt
For being only one. It’s not as if you were frivolous.
It’s not like that. It’s not like that at all.
Riding beside me, your seat belt around your invisible waist. Sweet Nothing.
Sweet, sweet Nothing.


Larry Levis


self-portrait . ambient light . photoshop heavy.

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