Debbie Harry's Daughter

I found somewhere warm in Memphis. It led me to New Orleans, got lost along the way.

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And then I had a dream about Debbie Harry’s daughter, rearing up out of some other nowhere and into my own. 

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She said, “An island loves a mandala, even as it scatters with the sands.”

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And she could only sting the sky as it lifted, as her dullard’s hands hung bullion from her shoulders.

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When colors and shades unseen for years leave their burns on the nerve,

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you chase them like floaters and flashes, but they’re never not another bit too far.

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As the afterimage dies, every shadow gets swallowed in the pulse. 

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And all night long, the rods are spared of seeing stars.

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So should it reach the drums down in south Louisiana,

I’m issuin' an aisle of view.

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