coney island 1938

the carnival barkers and the boardwalk queens throw dice with the archangels for pink slips and the souls of the departed. the tilt a whirl rises higher than the sun and will always go around and around like so many of the questions we throw at each other. in this diner, eating pie, making love on the counter tops. i want to finally feel you, up against the parts of me that matter. along the lines that curve and point to places i only dreamed of. my hands sliding downwards with the best of intentions. i will find the magic that this dream requires if i have to travel into the heart of darkness itself. where our desires are served as the daily special.

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