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The Artist & her

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She’s astonishing.
A real life bouncing doll.
He stares at the breaking horizon
of princess-red lips.
Standing from the shore of his heart,
tranced by a golden sea of curls.
Tall & thin, she moves like a dance,
silk floral clinging to bare skin.
She grips onto a bouquet of pink balloons.
They’re from him.

He says everything tastes like her &
she tastes like a retro romance;
Champaign & cocain, she tastes like
the cream on the tip of velvet cake.
She’s glitter & blue jeans.
Her eyes framed in stars.
She’s cigarettes in bed.
She’d like poison to his head.

He’s cloaked in ink.
The devil re-incarnate.
His tattoos, a mere glimpse into
the mosaic art-piece he is within.
Threaded tightly to the unforgiven,
his past, a blessing in disguise.
He doesn’t run, he fights.
He speaks like calligraphy; they listen.

The famously dangerous Black Bear.
He does what he wants to,
She does, too.
He’s the artist,
She’s the song.
A record spinning round & round.

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