Old Joanna Hits Her Stride

I must be losing my grip, all fingers and thumbs from the nights of white rum. But the ivory keys draw me in, rounded at the edges, smoothed, rancid butter-coloured enamel like the horse-toothed bar-buttresses I serenade tonight. I yellow in sallow rhythm-light to accompany the décor. Smoking Compulsory Here. Thank heaven for the black …

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