I have a stack of vintage photographs
What used to be called french postcards
Naughty women in black and white and sepia
Heavenly creatures with sultry curves and dead eyes
Did those old pictureboxes truly take their souls?
Trapped on paper and tin
Held there as they fade
Until only crumbles of paper and dusty ink last
In the cigar box under my bed
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Burn Burn Burn
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