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Soaps for dinner, o never end, despair,

peel, expire, or multiply

but did Olympia Dukakis really play a transsexual

stoner landlady from outer space?

Look, Kevin, Mrs. Madrigal, cryptic

marquessa, groom a multi-

generational plot, baroque in a pixie

wig and momming a transplant

O license to rent, decrepit wife:

don't make me cascade from marvelous

peaks to an uncomfortable end, on a

mattress in Denmark. Candy says:

I'm an angel of a future decade, bearing good news

Surrender now, wimps!

So do you wanna live or do you 

wanna funk all nite? A television

angel demands all, a watery

grave to sit on in queenly perpetuity

on Carroll Street, in piteous Brooklyn.

Will nobody palpate a decade into 

its superfund site, or rise again

like Britney did, from 2007? A taste of

your lips on a karaoke mic, Kevin:

first poison, second paradise, in an anterior tense.

Don't stop Sylvester, nor a sure comeback

in a Scene kid swoop, mistaken for decadent eyes,

lips, tongue and piercings kind of 

vibe, you know? You get me. 

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