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April 13, 2014 | by  | in Features |
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136 km/h

they walk with bloodshot eyes,
little dolls. new york smoke tastes like their paper wings,
icarus-thin feathers, bones made of melting wax
and hands made out of steel,
lovely architecture.
the parthenon in their throats,
the eiffel tower in their lungs,
profound things written across their arms:
james dean, johnny cash,
you’re an icarus-thin daydream, car crash victim.

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