Charles Bukowski And The Emo-Girl Comments

in the back of the bus they sit akwardly across from each
other. the smell of pabst and pall mall cigerettes magnetically repells against strawberry revlon lipgloss and hairspary. he is trying not to hear her headphones blaring fergy and she is trying not to notice the stains on his shirt.
he is thinking of neon exit signs and fishnet stockings on roominghouse madrigals who walk gently in the street under the red lights like cranes on a concrete pond.
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